


just to taste something sweet

by writingforhugs



Series: Italy and Beyond AU [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cats, F/M, Grief, Romance, Travel, heart-eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27770578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingforhugs/pseuds/writingforhugs
Summary: The adventure has to end at some point, right? After Italy comes the real world. Peeta and Katniss go back to Panem. The winter months draw in.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Series: Italy and Beyond AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031565
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	just to taste something sweet

**Author's Note:**

> as i promised, here is a little winter/christmas-themed update to this universe!! I was meant to upload on the 21st but time means nothing at current so here we are...
> 
> Title from the same poem as last time, Joan Tierney's breathtaking 'A Conversation w/ a snared fox at the edge of the field' (@filmnoirsbian on tumblr).
> 
> Soundtrack:  
> Switzerland by Daughter, Luna by The Smashing Pumpkins, Kinda Bonkers by Animal Collective, Holocene by Bon Iver, and ILYSB by LANY.  
> Songs mentioned:  
> Automaton by Jamiroquai and Still Loving You by the Scorpions.
> 
> anyway. have a very merry christmas, happy holiday, or simply a pleasant friday! enjoy!

**{TWO MONTHS LATER}**

The sound of distant cattle bells floats through the cracked open window, a tolling, peaceful sound, lulling a sense of calm through the crisp blue morning light. It’s quiet and soft, the entire world hazy. This place has been a paradise. It’s all I can ask for.

But of course, with Peeta, I always get more than I deserve.

He hushes me when I cry out, his mouth searing over mine and then down my neck. I hold onto him like I might float away if I don’t, digging my nails into his shoulders in an effort to focus. I try to catch my breath, to stop my head spinning and spinning.

I feel his lips curve into a smile against my skin.

“That feels good, huh?” he asks, voice low and rough, echoing the feel of his hands as they slide over my hips, my stomach, my breasts. He’s deep inside me, hitting exactly where I need. I’ve come twice already and the overwhelming pleasure means I hardly know left from right anymore. Time means nothing. It’s just me and him.

“This is what you wanted, remember?” he coaxes when I shudder in his arms. He rolls his hips, a hand dipping to my tailbone to pull me harder against him, guiding my movements.

“ _Peeta_ ,” I moan. “Come on.”

In one smooth move he pushes me onto my back, slipping out of me for a moment before driving back in. I grip the sheets. I’m on fire. I’m burning up. He’s a breeze, fanning those flames.

He moves with purpose now, not slow and steady like before, but harder, faster, interspersed with grinding thrusts that make my mouth fall open. I secure one hand on the back of his neck and kiss him like I’m the one fucking him and he groans. I wrap my legs around him and pull him close.

“ _Fuck_ , Katniss,” he grunts, and I roll my head back against the pillows and moan his name and come again. He kisses my breasts, sucking one into his mouth, and a moment later he comes as well, cursing, gasping, and I pry my eyes open to watch pleasure wash over him.

He slumps down over me, a dead weight, and I put my jelly arms around him and my nose in the crook of his neck. He smells like sweat and sex.

We lie there for a good ten minutes, exhausted, sated. Early morning sunlight is just beginning to brighten the distant Alps and seeps in through the window. I tangle my fingers through his wavy hair and watch the slow movement of the sun, feel the cool mountain air prickling my skin. I’m glad to have Peeta’s warmth on me, even if he does weight a tonne.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asks, lifting his head and looking blearily at me.

“Yeah,” I say, the understatement of the week. “Did you just fall asleep?”

“I think I passed out,” he murmurs, and my mouth pulls into a smirk. I spike his hair up.

“You need a haircut.”

“Did you see a barber in the village?”

“I can’t remember.”

Peeta hums. Smooths his hand over my side. “I kind of like it long,” he says, so I pull on the strands. “See? It gives you something to hang onto.”

I roll my eyes and groan in disgust and properly push him off me. I need a shower and it’s early enough that I’ll be able to drift back to sleep for an hour or two if I’m lucky.

“You’re so thoughtful,” I tell him as I climb off the bed and stumble to the bathroom. He sprawls out on the mattress and laughs like he’s proud of himself.

In the bathroom, I jump into the shower. I feel drowsy in the best way. Calm and peaceful and good. I feel good. I feel happy. Three orgasms will do that to a girl. I emerge from the hot water ten minutes later, and find that Peeta actually has fallen asleep.

“Men,” I say to myself. “Useless.”

I locate some underwear and a baggy shirt and then yank at the bedsheets until he wakes up.

“Go shower,” I instruct. “You’re not allowed back in bed if you’re all sweaty and gross.”

He groans and whines dramatically until I’ve pulled off everything but the mattress sheet. I grab his boxers and whip his ass with them to prompt him into action. While he showers, I change the sheets because it was really about time, and then get right back in.

“No early start?” he asks as he slides in beside me, hair damp, skin smelling of soap.

“You already woke me up at five a.m.,” I grumble, curling up against him. “We can afford to sleep in for a little bit.”

He might say something sarcastic in response, but I’m out for the count and don’t hear it.

A few hours later, I wake and find the bed empty. It’s eight fifteen, much more reasonable, and sunlight and birdsong streams through the window, the blue morning banished. The smell of coffee floats in from the kitchen next door. I get up and find Peeta sat at the little table with a map and visitor’s guide spread out in front of him.

“I thought we could cycle down to the station and get the train up the valley,” he says.

“We could hike it,” I suggest, pouring my own cup. Peeta always makes me some, even though he doesn’t drink it. His own steaming cup of tea sits in front of him, half-empty.

“Thirty miles?” he blanches. “ _Uphill_?” He scoffs. “No thanks. I want to sit down and let a train haul my ass up the side of a mountain while I drink hot chocolate and eat little cakes. No granola and twisted ankles for me.”

I sit down opposite him. “I’m gonna force you to hike at least once,” I tell him. “You can’t leave Europe without hiking somewhere.”

He pulls a face. “Sorry I’m not some outdoorsy lumberjack bro,” he says. I snort, thinking of Gale. When we visited Gale and Madge, I could tell Peeta felt a little emasculated by my childhood friend. Peeta is generally a confident, self-assured guy, but I don’t hold it against him for getting slightly rankled by Gale chopping firewood and doing one-armed press-ups and tinkering with an old car and using aftershave with the scent _Chrome Bullet_.

“Hey,” I say, our feet tangling under the table. “I like how soft and unworked your hands are.”

He gapes at me, splaying his square palms. “I have callouses, actually,” he points out.

I give him a patronising smile. “All that painting and colouring must really do a number on you, huh?”

“You’re so mean to me.”

“Lumberjacks aren’t my thing anyway,” I placate him. “If I ever see you in flannel I’m going to ghost you.”

“I’m from Panem. Flannel is my love language.”

“ _I’m_ from Panem. My parents used flannel to mop up my sister’s cat’s barf.”

Peeta grins at me. I grin back.

“That’s gross,” he says.

“Yeah, it is,” I reply.

At nine a.m., we leave the little house we’ve rented for the week. It’s built on the sloping side of a mountain, with stunning views of the valley, the peaks, and a waterfall crashing down the rock face. It’s a little early for snow, but there’s a chill in the air and the summits are white-capped already.

We pack our bags with a mix of warm and cold-weather clothing, Peeta’s sketchbook, my water bottles, a map, spare socks, all sorts, and then cycle into the village two miles away, a pleasant ten minute downhill ride (and a much more strenuous uphill return). We zip past trees slowly turning orange, fresh morning air buffeting past us, pastures lit gold and contrasting with the dark pine alpine forests at higher altitudes, and I can’t stop smiling.

We park outside a little bakery and pick up some breakfast and then cycle deeper through the village to a quiet lookout spot to eat. The village is small, practical, and only really busy in peak ski season, which the locals are prepping for already. We eat our cheese buns and sweet, preserve-filled pastries and listen to the birds and the water burbling in a nearby stream, and then continue on to the station.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the alpine train, securing a great spot besides the huge windows. It’s a perfect start to the day.

The train is still waiting for stragglers on the platform, but we’re more than happy to just sit and wait. I text Gale and Madge and Johanna, sending photos of the train and the village, and Peeta pours over his map, scanning the route the train will take through rocky passes and sweeping valleys. When it finally leaves, filled with excitable tourists eager to see the beauty of western Austria, we order hot chocolates and little cakes as Peeta described and just sit back and take it all in.

We spent almost two weeks with Madge and Gale. I was worried we were intruding, especially because Peeta was the outlier of my existing close friendship with them, but they got better than I could have anticipated. Madge and Peeta even went on solo trips together to a local museum, while Gale and I hiked a nearby trail. Our significant others came back flushed from an immersion in art history, and Gale and I came back flushed from exertion and with mud-splattered trousers. It was so good to see him and Madge, to talk about my mom and Prim, to talk about Panem, about how things have and haven’t changed, and, importantly, to be reassured that despite my sudden vanishing into the wilds of Europe didn’t sever my friendship with them.

After leaving them, Peeta and I stayed in Switzerland for another two and a half weeks, driving or taking trains up and down and left and right, absorbing the country and its culture and scenery. Peeta ate enough baked goods to last him a lifetime and I marvelled at the mountains and the wildlife and envisioned a life for myself as a ranger for the country’s national parks. After Switzerland, we went east into the tiny, tiny country of Liechtenstein, taking in its equally beautiful sights and sounds and delicacies, and then headed into western Austria, where we’ve been for the past few weeks. It’s been heaven, to say the least. I know how lucky I am to be here, and I don’t forget that for a moment.

I am constantly thinking, too, about how lucky I am to have met Peeta, for him to come with me. He tells me that he feels the same way about meeting me, but I can hardly believe him. I have baggage and I scowl most of the time and I’m argumentative, but he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t seem to agree with my self-assessments unless I’m describing myself as stubborn.

 _You can’t be so hard on yourself,_ he says instead.

But he’s so sunny, so relentlessly optimistic without being naïve, practical and smart and kind. What could have been a trip alone is a trip with constant company. I don’t feel stifled. I feel strong. I feel better because he’s here. And when I scroll on my camera or my phone and see the photos I’ve taken and Peeta’s taken, it’s not just solitary selfies or pictures of the places I’ve visited. It’s Peeta’s smiling face. It’s me and him together. It’s me alone but not lonely. It’s the beautiful landscape. None of it feels empty.

The train soars up through the valley, higher and higher. At one point we pass through a tunnel that seems like it’ll never end, and when we emerge on the other side of the mountain, the light is startlingly bright, cascading down onto a landscape of grey crags and plains. I take photos and Peeta sketches. We end up talking to the people sat across the aisle from us, comparing our travels. As the train curves around the track and begins to glide towards our final destination, I take Peeta’s hand and refuse to let go. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles softly and keeps drawing.

It’s a quiet, peaceful journey, through mountains that look like they’re straight from a fantasy novel, and when the train pulls into a tiny station a few thousand feet higher, everyone piles off to walk around and inhale the crisp air and crunch through the layer of snow preserved by the cooler temperatures. Peeta and I buy sandwiches at the massively overpriced café built beside the station, and then we’re back into the warmth of the train and beginning the journey back down. I manage to convince him to get off two stops early so we can walk through the valley by the river. It’s warm enough at this level that you only need a light jacket, compared to on the summit, where I was glad for my thicker coat and gloves.

It’s an hour before sundown when we get back to the village.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask Peeta.

“When you say ‘hiking’ I imagine crampons and scaling the north face,” Peeta sheepishly admits. “This was nice.”

I swing our clasped hands. “This was barely a hike, though. It was downhill.”

“I got stones in my shoes.”

“You’ve hitchhiked across half of Italy, weirdo. You’ve definitely walked further than that before.”

“Yeah, because I _wanted_ to. Because I was surrounded by _olive groves_.”

He isn’t much happier to remember that we have to cycle back up to our rented house, and complains the whole way.

“Maybe I would prefer a lumberjack after all!” I interrupt him, and he gapes at me.

“How dare you!”

I hurry up so he can’t catch me, giving up on cycling in favour of just pushing the bike up the road, and have been back inside the house for a full five minutes before he finally manages to appear. He flops onto the couch with a groan.

“I am so tired,” he says, voice muffled by the cushions.

“We sat down for like, eighty percent of the day,” I say, poking him. “You’re getting lazy, Peeta.”

He grumbles at me. “Just let me sleep,” he says. “I just want to nap for a little while.”

He naps for almost an hour in the end. I do my best at cooking us something for supper, and he wakes just in time to stop me burning everything.

“My chef senses were tingling,” he says, coming up behind me and turning down the heat on the stovetop. I roll my eyes and push him back, dipping the spoon into the pan and holding it up for him to taste. He pretends to gag.

“You’re all jokes now that you’ve had a nap, old man,” I scowl, and he laughs, kissing me briefly before helping with plates, cutlery, and drinks. We eat and then curl up on the couch to watch TV. I’m tired too after such a long day and so much fresh air, that last stretch with the bikes really killing me, and we soon enough go to bed, collapsing into sleep.

The next morning, we pack our bags, return the key through the letter slot, and are on our way, heading further east into Austria, spending hours driving through winding mountain passes. In tiny villages nestled amidst the trees and peaks we try local foods and visit crumbling castles and war-time memorials and eat enough strudel to last us a lifetime. We arrive at our next destination, Innsbruck, just as it’s starting to get dark. We check into our hotel and order room service, neither of us having the energy to go out for anything fancy, and watch Austrian television and read up about the country some more. It has a lot of similarities to Switzerland with its Alpine culture, but is evidently distinct. I’m just happy to still be in the mountains.

We’re only staying in Innsbruck for two days, but by now we’re both pretty good at making the most of even a short stay. The next day, we roam through the city, taking in what will soon be a bustling skiing hotspot. It’s positioned below huge, triangular mountains dusted with snow and forests, a mix of buildings with steep roofs wreathed with lights and Austrian flags, and the wide streets of the city centre, with its brightly painted modern buildings along the river. The old town is a warren of buildings and the local market is busy with early tourists and locals, and Peeta picks out a postcard from a little boutique and vanishes it into his backpack.

A local suggests a short drive up to a great viewpoint by a lake above the town, so we grab some food and follow the suggested route, and come across what must be the most beautiful mountain lake I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been in the Alps for over a month. It’s nestled like a jewel in a cluster of mountains, and the water is stunningly clear.

“We should swim,” I say as we sit in the car and eat our lunch. It reminds me so much of the lake in Caprarola, where I waded and Peeta fretted about the water and where Peeta and I joked about wrestling and I had to drag my mind out of the gutter.

The lake in Italy was a lot different to this one, and the weather was decidedly more suitable for swimming, but once the idea is in my head, I can’t shake it.

Peeta on the other hand, can shake it, and shakes it right off.

“No,” he says. “I am not swimming in that.”

“Don’t act like I’m suggesting a splash about in a cesspit,” I fire back. “Look at this place.”

“It’s beautiful. But that water is going to be absolutely freezing.”

“I bet it won’t.”

“It’s mountain water. It’s basically winter already. Of course it will be.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say. I peer at him. “Come on, Peeta. I have a towel in my backpack and you can get out when you want and come and sit in the car if you want.”

“You know I don’t like water.”

“I’ll swim, then. You have to at least get your feet in.”

Peeta sighs into his food. “We need to wait half an hour before getting in,” he says resignedly. I lean towards him and kiss him loudly on the cheek.

“That’s a myth,” I tell him, opening the passenger side door and jumping out. “And now you can’t back out.”

“I don’t remember actually making any promises.”

“Too late!”

I go to the back seat and pull out a towel from my bag and then begin to walk down to the shoreline. It is colder here, and I know the water will have a chill but it’s way too beautiful not to get in. The shoreline and the road leading to it are deserted, too, enough off the beaten track that no one will be here to bother us.

I look back over my shoulder at Peeta, and, to his credit, he has gotten out of the car and started to trudge after me. I take his hand and pull him along.

“Just think of the pool in Padua,” I say. He gives me a withering look.

“This is nothing like a _pool_ , Katniss. There’s literally snow up there!” he points to a distant peak, wreathed in dense forest and blue sky.

I set the towel down on the rocky shoreline and begin to kick off my boots and unbutton my jeans. It’s warm enough that I don’t instantly regret stripping down to my underwear, the golden sun just enough to ward off the chill. I leave my clothes on the shoreline and wade in. Peeta stands there looking at me like I’m crazy.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, even though I did shiver as the water hit my thighs. I keep going, and then dive straight under, into water as clear as air, into an underwater world that is muffled and endless. I swim out a little further, and then pop back up, pushing my hair out of my face. I feel awakened and rejuvenated, which is something I definitely need after spending so long recently sat in cars driving or gazing out the window when Peeta drove.

“Don’t go out too far!” he calls over to me. I swim closer to shore until I can comfortably stand up, and beckon him over.

“Peeta, come on, I won’t let you drown,” I tell him. He stands hesitantly on the shoreline, hands curling and uncurling into fists as he looks out at the water. I wade back into the shallows, the water sluicing down from my hips and to my ankles. I reach my hand out to him. “We won’t go in deep,” I promise. “Just think of it as a… rustic pool.”

He scoffs. “Biggest pool I’ve seen in my life.”

I smile at him. “A pool really isn’t any different from a lake. And look at this—” I swing my arm out to the panorama. “You have to come in.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Fine,” he says, psyching himself up and shaking his arms out. “Fine.”

He strips down to his underwear and then walks into the water like he’s walking the plank. When he’s close enough, he takes both of my hands, and then, to my surprise, keeps walking, a look of determination on his face. I walk backwards and we slowly but surely get to chest-height, the crystal clear water showing out bodies refracting over the pebbly lakebed. Peeta begins to look uncomfortable, so I stop.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says on an exhale.

“You gonna go under?”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. And no deeper.”

“Okay,” I say. I’m not going to break his trust, not when he’s already pushed himself out of his comfort zone for me. I do let go of his hands, though, and cup his face instead, pulling him in for a kiss to distract him. His hands, warm against my water-cooled skin, slide to my waist.

“See?” I murmur. “Not so bad after all.”

I do swim out a little deeper or so, ducking under and opening my eyes into the clear mountain water. Peeta looks mildly relieved when I resurface, but doesn’t go back to the shore. I splash him, laughing at his look of shock, and then he splashes me back. I swim under the water towards him and pop up only to splash him again, and then we’re fully attacking each other, laughing and screaming. Peeta stumbles at one point, and almost goes under, and the look of fear that crosses his face is so sudden that I can’t help but laugh, and then feel bad afterwards.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he says, scrubbing his face with his hand.

“Peeta,” I say, wading towards him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I twist around to make him look at me, and eventually his frown falters into a small smile. “You just looked so surprised that the water was there,” I tell him.

“I told you I can only handle pools,” he says.

“Baby,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes. “Let me teach you how to float, at least,” I say. “Floating might save your life one day.”

He looks like he wants to say no, but relents. “Alright,” he says. And then, under his breath even though I can definitely hear: _so pushy_.

“Hey!” I protest. “What if you fall off a boat or a plane you’re in crashes into the sea?”

He lifts his eyebrows, eyes widening. “I would simply not let that happen.”

“Loser.”

He shakes his head at my immature comeback. “Are you going to teach me or not?”

And so we spend the next half hour or so in waist-deep water. It takes Peeta few tries to trust that he won’t sink like a stone, and his grip on my arm is just as tight as when he first got in, but he gets it eventually. I keep one hand on the small of his back, the other over his chest or stomach.

“You’re fine,” I murmur, feeling him tense up a little bit. “Just relax, okay? Your body is designed to float.”

“Maybe I’m just too muscular for that,” he replies, but it’s strained as his eyes dart from the sky to me.

I scoff. “You’ve actually been getting a bit fat,” I say, poking his stomach.

“How can you say things like that when I’m doing this for you?” he asks. I cup his face with my hand.

“Aww, babe, are you upset?”

“It’s hard to exercise when I’m driving _someone_ everywhere all the time.”

“Good thing we went swimming then, huh?” I say. A beat or two, and then I smile at him. Our sarcastic barbs have distracted him enough to stop him overthinking. “See, you’re floating.”

His face fractures into a nervous smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Don’t tense up too much. Just let the water hold you. I’m going to let go of you, but I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he says, and I step back, lifting my hands from his skin. He almost doesn’t hold it, but at the last second pulls it back, and blinks up at the sky with determination.

“There you go,” I say, laying back myself and floating too. I reach for his hand. “Isn’t this nice?”

“There might be a shark swimming under us.”

“Not in a lake.”

“A lake shark.”

I smile. “I won’t let the lake shark get you.”

We spend only a little while longer in the water. Or, rather, Peeta gets out and walks around on the shoreline, while I swim around looking at the rocks and the fish and the gorgeous scenery and enjoying the exercise, before eventually joining him when the chill gets a bit too much. We towel off and head back up to the road to the car. I have Peeta hold the towel as a shield while I take off my wet underwear and pull on my hoodie and jeans, and then do the same for him.

“No free show for the locals?” he asks, yanking his jeans back on.

“I’m not sure how Austrians feel about American stripteases,” I say wryly. We get back in the car and head back to the hotel, where we jump into the shower right away, the warm water making me shudder after swimming around in what was, admittedly, a really rather cold lake.

“I prefer this to any body of water,” Peeta says to me, kissing my shoulder. I push him against the cold tiles in the stall and kiss him properly, my hand sliding down over his stomach to grasp at his cock.

“I could’ve done this in the lake too,” I say against his mouth, and he rests his hand on my neck and kisses me back. I tighten my grip and he gasps into my mouth, pushing against me, free hand sliding down to my ass.

“Is this a reward?” he asks, eyes blown dark as he rests his head on the tiles. I twist my hand and his eyes flutter shut.

“You’re a grown man who didn’t know how to float,” I say sarcastically.

“Well this doesn’t feel like a punishment,” he says lowly, and I kiss him again, biting on his bottom lip to make him groan. I could never punish Peeta.

Later, we head back out into a sparkling Innsbruck and grab food at a cosy, cramped inn that overlooks a craggy, thundering waterfall. The locals are kind and friendly and more than happy to talk about the region, and it doesn’t take long for us to be joining a group of mountaineering experts who’ve come to hike through the winter season. Beer flows freely, as does the conversation. I talk about Panem and the mountains in the States, and Peeta talks about maps and then manages to sway the conversation into the direction of art, since one of the group is an avid painter themselves. It’s good to talk to other people, even though they’re strangers, and when we leave the inn, a little drunk and smiling wide, I can’t help but laugh.

“What are you laughing about?” Peeta asks me, arm around my waist as we walk up the main street towards the hotel. The buildings around us twinkle with lights. It reminds me for a moment of that first evening with Peeta, way back in Italy. Me, drunk, Peeta guiding me along, everything bright and happy.

“I forgot how nice it is to talk to people,” I say.

“You’re bored of me?”

I shove him and we sway away from each other and then back again like magnets.

“No, no, I’m not. I just—it’s nice to not know their life story, you know? To be strangers and still have things in common. People are nice.”

Peeta smiles sweetly down at me. “Yeah,” he says. “They are.”

The next morning, we take the funicular and then the cable car up into the nature reserve south of the city. Peeta looks nervous to be in the cable car. Heights aren’t his thing either.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have visited the Alps at all,” I say, half-joking. I squeeze his hand in reassurance. “It’ll be worth it when we get to the top. Just look at the scenery, let it distract you.”

“I’m trying,” he says, looking directly at me. It’s a sappy line, and I shove my hand in his face.

“You’re clearly not that scared if you can make jokes,” I say. He pulls me towards him on the little bench, until we’re bunched up together, the material of our coats brushing against one another.

“It wasn’t a joke,” he says. “Though you seem to think I am.”

It is worth it, in the end. The cable car drops us off on the Nordkette ridge, and we’re met with dustings of snow and breathtaking panoramic views of Innsbruck and the surrounding mountains.

“Alright,” Peeta says, gazing out at a landscape that’s probably completely different with his artist’s eye to what I can see. “I admit this is pretty cool.”

We take photos and walk around the well-signposted ridge, point at what we can see, and get odd looks from the locals who are just in jeans and loose sweatshirts, as if walking around these massive mountains is an easy weekday activity for them, rather than a day’s excursion, like it is for us. Peeta sits and sketches while I send photos to Jo and Gale and Madge and enjoy the bright sunlight and the peace and quiet. We devour the portions of Linzer torte we picked up from a café at the base of the mountain and drink lukewarm tea from Peeta’s thermos. When the sun starts to move closer to the horizon, we descend back down into the valley, and find a nice restaurant for the evening.

“Italy doesn’t have snowy scenes like this,” Peeta says as we eat, feet tangled under the table. Through the window, we can see the mountains and the cable car going up and down in the twilight. Innsbruck glitters with life.

“But you’re already losing your tan,” I say, grazing his wrist where the skin has been exposed by his sleeve riding up. “Summer in Austria isn’t like summer in Italy.” I grin at him. “But you swam in a lake in _Austria_ , not Italy. That’s something to remember.”

“It was cold, A,” he begins, counting on his fingers. “And deep, B, and massive, C, and let me return to point A—it was _cold as balls_.”

“And it had a lake shark, apparently.”

“Not disproven, so yes, point D—lake shark.”

“I’m starting to think you didn’t even grow up in Panem,” I say. “You remember the winters we had, right? Snow up to the roof, blizzards, frozen water pipes weather?”

“When I was a kid and still lived with my parents, the bakery ovens meant the snow would literary _melt_ off the roof. I was never cold. And when I lived with my grandparents they had about fifty electric blankets for me to choose from. I wasn’t swimming in any lakes, especially not in the winter.”

“You must have gone sledding. You must have been _outside_.”

He gives me a look. “Again, I wasn’t taking off my clothes and prancing around.”

I beam at him. “You have to agree it was fun.”

“What if we got hypothermic and drowned?” he deadpans.

“I think you’re way overthinking everything. You’re being a wuss,” I tell him. I sigh, resting my chin in my hand. “I did like Panem in winter. Everything was cosy. I used to go skating on the lake just outside of the Seam.”

“The lake?”

“Yeah. Jet Lake?”

Peeta grimaces. “The one that’s basically just a mine shaft filled with water?”

“That’s exactly what it is. Super-deep.”

“I’d rather die than swim in that.”

“We didn’t swim. We skated.”

“What if the ice broke?”

I shrug. “Acceptable risk.”

Peeta shakes his head. “I think you just grew up doing dangerous shit. I bet you were one of those kids who would touch electric fences on purpose.”

“How else would you find out if they were on?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’m the one who was coddled,” he says dryly, and I lace our fingers together.

“Good thing you met me, then,” I tell him. “I’ll get you out of your comfort zone.”

The next day we leave Innsbruck and head north-west towards Salzburg. It’s only a few hours, and the landscape is of course beautiful. I drive and Peeta hands me snacks at regular intervals and reads out the funny texts he gets from Annie and Finnick, who dislike cold weather even more than he does, and can’t believe we swam in the lake.

Yesterday’s brief discussion about Panem, about home, about childhood, continues into the day. I talk about Christmas, about my father’s upbringing clashing with my mother’s, about his Italian takes on the festive season, about sledding and snowmen and chipping ice off the doorframes. Peeta talks about being bullied by his brothers during snowball fights, about his grandfather climbing a ladder each year to put lights up on the house even though it was kind of dangerous, about spending Christmas Eve with his dad.

“He used to drive me into town or even all the way to Capitol and we’d watch whatever Christmas film the movie theatre was showing. When I was really little I’d go and see Santa. When I got older we’d go bowling or something. It was nice.”

I smile at the notion. Peeta’s opened up a little bit about his difficult childhood, about how he felt like he was wasting space and making everything harder by living with his grandparents, about how it took until he was seventeen to fully accept that being removed from his mom in particular was for his own good and wasn’t an unnecessary hassle.

“My dad never let me apologise,” he says thoughtfully. “I used to want to be with my brothers but my mom was always there and CPS had forbidden contact. But I always went out with my dad.”

“What would he have thought of all this?” I ask as we carefully descend into another valley, turning left and right around hairpin bends.

“He didn’t like the outdoors either,” he shrugs. “But he would’ve loved his. You know those tins of cookies they used to sell at the mall in Merchantville?” he asks.

“The ones with the mountains painted on the side?”

“Yeah. He always said he’d go and visit when he retired. Find the exact mountains on the tin.”

I hum. “My dad always wanted to go back to Italy. Only managed it once after he married my mom.”

“It’s not fair,” Peeta sighs. I put my hand on his thigh. I don’t want to get upset, and I don’t want him to either.

“I know,” I say. “But we’re here, at least. Think of yourself as doing it for your dad. He would’ve been proud of you, knowing you’d come out here.”

Peeta smiles faintly. “I wish he could have met you.”

I can’t think of anything to say, the lump in my throat choking me up, so I don’t say anything until we’re on the floor of the valley. Then I pull over and hug Peeta tightly, reaching over the centre consol.

“What’s going on?” he asks, hugging me back anyway. I squeeze my eyes shut, not willing to let the tears welling there spill over.

“I’m just hugging you,” I say, my voice caught in my throat. “Let me hug you.”

“I didn’t mean to make the conversation so depressing.”

“You didn’t,” I say. “It’s just... a lot.”

We pull back. Peeta brushes his thumb over my cheek, catching a tear that fell despite my best efforts. “I made you cry,” he says. I wipe hastily at my face.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. I laugh despite myself. I’m not embarrassed to cry in front of Peeta, but sometimes the both of us can sort of build on each other’s grief until it hurts more than I want it to. But it’s oddly cathartic, too. Like jumping into that lake, it’s the equivalent of ripping off an emotional bandage and poking at the wound and realising it has started to heal without me even realising it.

“I think my dad would have liked you, Peeta. A lot,” I tell him. He looks like I’ve just given him a gift.

“Even though I’m not outdoorsy?”

I laugh. It’s an ugly, snotty sound. He grins back. “Yeah. You might have had to go on a hike with him at some point though.”

“I would’ve done it for you.”

“You’re my hero.”

Peeta pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear. I grab his hand and lean into his palm, savouring the touch.

“You know I love you, right?” I say, blurting it out. I don’t overthink it. I just say it. This might not be the perfect moment but it’s the right moment, here, at the side of a mountain road in Austria, teary-eyed because we’re talking about our dead fathers and about swimming in flooded mineshafts and cookie tins.

Peeta’s face almost crumples. “Yeah?” he says. I feel my face burning but I can’t back out now. I have to say it.

“Yeah. I love you,” I repeat. My eyes widen. “That kind of came out of nowhere,” I say, and he shakes his head.

“No it didn’t. Katniss, Jesus, I thought I’d be the one to say it first. I mean, I feel like I already have but… I love you too. More than anything.”

My cheeks ache from smiling so much. I cuff Peeta’s jaw.

“Beat you to it, didn’t I? And I’m the one who’s meant to be bad a communicating.”

Peeta snorts. “You’re pretty good at speaking your mind when it’s necessary,” he says. “I’ve learnt that the hard way.”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” I reply, but I’m laughing too. He leans in, both hands cupping my cheeks, and kisses me. When we pull apart, he just looks at me with such intensity that I can’t help but squirm.

“I can’t believe you said it first,” he murmurs, eyes all soft.

“Don’t make me regret it,” I reply, but I really don’t think I ever could, not with Peeta.

The rest of the drive into Salzburg is quiet, contemplative, and happy. My brain runs wild with surprise at myself, for saying the big L-word first. Peeta wasn’t alone in thinking that I’d say it last. He always has been better with feelings and communicating them.

“It’s the therapy,” he told me once. “Something about telling a stranger all the dark shit in your head makes it easier to talk in the real world.”

But I said it. I said it first. Not that it’s a competition, but there’s something liberating about telling him first.

I think back to Italy, to before Padua, when I was brought to tears after realising that I liked him a lot. It culminated in that horrible argument, all because I couldn’t say what was on my mind, or deal with it myself. Now, months later, I’m glad to have told him without overthinking everything. It makes me feel lighter inside.

And to have him say it back… well, I suppose deep down, I already knew that was how he felt. He didn’t have to say it for me to feel it.

Salzburg is only a little bit larger than Innsbruck, which has much more of a small town charm, despite its city status. We check into our hotel and immediately go out to explore, taking in the architecture, getting guidance from a tourist information centre to figure out the best way of getting around and the key places to visit.

We find ourselves at a winter market, and our lunch ends up being all manner of foods picked up from various stalls. Schnitzel and apfelstrudel, freshly made soups with crusty bread, dumplings steaming on the inside, burning our tongues, and something called _Germknödel_ , which Peeta falls in love with, a doughy dumpling covered with poppy seeds and sugar, and filled with a rich spiced plum jam.

“Oh my god,” he says, biting into it, his eyes going wide and reflecting the shimmering string lights around us. “I might cry, this is so good.”

He’s got a much bigger sweet tooth than I have—a whole mouth of sweet teeth, really—so I stick to goulash and rich broths, eating until I feel fit to burst. It’s a cloudy day, and cold, making the twinkling lights glow brighter and the winter feel ever closer, so when we come across a stall selling mulled wine, I insist on it. It’s hot when the little cups are slid over to us, spices floating in the rich maroon liquid, and when I taste it, I’m thrown back in time to how Gale’s mother used to make her mulled wine.

“She always made it stronger than it needed to be,” I reminisce, hands tight around the cup as Peeta and I slowly meander down the street, the sky above turning bluer and darker as the sun begins to dip beneath the distant mountains. “Gale and I would always sneak a cup or two when the adults weren’t looking. I never used to like the taste when I was a kid, but one year I just suddenly got it.”

Peeta smiles at me. “And this hits the spot?”

I hum, taking another sip. “It really does.”

We keep walking and talking about food, one of our favourite topics, and eventually end up in Mozart Square and find an ice rink set up there.

“Shall we go skating?” I ask, and Peeta nods enthusiastically.

“We absolutely shall,” he says. We finish our mulled wine stood at the edge of the rink, watching people skating either with ease or with great difficultly, like deer on the ice, and then pay a few euros to hire some skates.

“Are you good at this?” I ask Peeta.

“I skate like a dance,” he says, lacing up his skates and standing, wobbling slightly.

“All passion, no skill?” I ask, grinning, and he raises his hands.

“What can I say?” he replies. “You seemed to enjoy my dancing, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy me falling on my ass.”

“I won’t let you embarrass me in front of so many people,” I tell him, and we wobble over to the desk to stow our shoes and then wobble back across and climb onto the ice.

It takes a minute or so for me to get back into the swing of things, given that it’s been perhaps six years since I last skated, but then it’s as easy as walking, and I glide back and forth with glee, feeling like a giddy child for just a moment.

After a lap or two around the rink, I remember that Peeta is in fact on the ice as well, and I locate him making slower progress, pushing himself across the gleaming ice with a look of determination.

“Are you alright?” I ask him, skating over and digging my blades into the ice to grind to a stop beside him.

“Stop showing off,” he says, glowering at me, but sure enough, after another minute or so, he becomes less stiff and we’re able to join the other skaters in a steady glide around the rink.

It’s a beautiful place for a rink, with the old buildings surrounding the square decorated for the season and milling with people. Music plays over the speakers and a huge fir tree sparkles with what looks like about a million lights.

“I feel like I’m on a date,” I say as Peeta and I skate hand-in-hand. He swirls me under his arm and grins.

“Pretty cool date, huh?”

“What’s this, our fourth one?”

It might as well be. I honestly have no idea. It’s not like we’ve been on many. When you’re constantly with someone the way I have been with Peeta, going on a date means marking out a specific amount of time and an activity with the sole purpose of it _being_ a date. What Peeta and I do just by virtue of travelling together means we often end up doing date-like things without ever calling it as such. Sure, it’s not always an average date activity, but we’ve had plenty of dinners together, gone on plenty of romantic walks, and so on. We haven’t kept count, but there was no need.

“This has to be our seventh or eighth, surely,” Peeta says, frowning as he thinks. “I think we could include walking up to that lookout point in Florence. And that meal in Zurich and that time we went to the museum in Vaduz. I think they all count.”

“If you’re gonna include every museum we’ve been to, or every meal we’ve had together, I think we’re on date one thousand.”

“And they’ve all been amazing.”

“Well, happy nineteen years of being together,” I say.

“Nineteen?”

“Yeah. One date a week… that’s like, nineteen years, right?”

Peeta smiles at me. “I feel like it’s only been a few months.”

“Crazy how time flies,” I say, smiling back at him. I lean in and kiss him, my chest tightening with how much I love him and his stupid face and his dumb romantic gestures. When we pull apart, I can’t help but laugh.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, looking up at the sky as snowflakes start fluttering down.

“See, a perfect date,” Peeta says, pulling me closer. His nose is red with the cold, and I rub it with my finger.

“Perfect,” I agree, and we skate on through the snow.

We only leave the rink when we’re both hungry again, and the walk back through the city is like a fairy tale. The glowing lights, Peeta’s company, and old buildings becoming dusted with snow like cakes dusted with sugar. It feels like something from a dream.

We stop at a popular brauhaus, nabbing a cosy table where we can hear each other speak but are still immersed in the jovial atmosphere of the place, ordering local dishes and drinking local beer.

“Now you can’t show off with your Italian,” Peeta says after we Google Translate our way through the menu to order dessert.

“Maybe instead of complaining, you should actually try and learn another language,” I shoot back, and he eyes me around his giant pint of beer.

“Hey, I’m pretty sure you said you’d teach me Italian and you’ve barely put any effort in.”

“It’s not my fault you’re unwilling to learn new things.”

“I managed to _float_ just the other day! I’m always learning new things.”

I laugh. “Fine, I’ll teach you more Italian.”

“Useful stuff. Not stuff that makes me look insane when I try and talk to anyone.”

I laugh harder and Peeta huffs. When the waitress comes back with our shared dessert, he asks, in stilted German, for another round.

“Kein problem,” she says. When she’s gone, Peeta helpfully translates using his intuition. Then he grins at me. “Also, notice how I did this—” he lifts his hand with his thumb and index finger pointing out, and his other fingers curled in. “And not this—” he does the ‘peace’ sign. “That’s how Germans show the number two with their hands.”

“We’re not in Germany.”

“It’s a German-speaking country.”

I grin at him. “You just learnt that from _Inglorious Basterds._ ”

“And? It’s correct, isn’t it?” he protests, and then our beers arrive and we cheers and dig into our dessert.

It’s late when we leave the brauhaus and return to the hotel. The snow has continued, but it’s not heavy. Still, I’m glad to get back to the hotel and the warmth it provides, jumping in the shower and changing into some cosy pyjamas before falling into bed, feeling a little drunk and plenty happy with how the day has turned out. A reciprocated declaration of love, good food, a beautiful city, snow and ice skating.

Peeta emerges from the bathroom shirtless, and I mentally add one extra point in today’s favour.

“Come on,” I say, pulling back the sheets and patting the mattress. “It’s cold in here without you.”

“I have a few ideas on how to warm you up,” he says. Twenty minutes later, I have to push him away from me, his mouth between my legs torture after coming already, and I forget all about the cold weather outside.

For our second day in Salzburg, we begin it with brunch at a café recommended by the man at the front desk, and then head to the old city and begin a tour of the medieval churches. They’re beautiful, stunning, and bitterly cold in the wintery weather. We sit in for a service, unable to understand a word but enjoying the atmosphere of it all. Then it’s more walking and gazing at old buildings, and then more local food at the market. Peeta buys a bag of _Germknödel_ and inhales them.

“You’re obsessed,” I tell him, and when he tries to stand up for himself, he has poppy seeds in his teeth.

We visit the Museum der Moderne next, because it’s been about two weeks since our last museum excursion, and I know Peeta was getting withdrawal symptoms. The complex consists of two buildings, one in the old town and one on the Mönchsberg mountain. We visit both since they’re just up the street from one another, starting with the latter. The building is almost shockingly utilitarian, a stout, grey building with a dozen concrete steps leading up to the entrance and a turret built into the side, but it matches the ultra-modern artwork inside. Lots of it is heavily conceptual, the modern sculptures and paintings clashing with the traditional pieces I saw in Rome.

We walk through the space, imposing with its grey and white colour scheme and spacious, echoing rooms filled with odd pieces of art. A sculpture of a leg, hanging from a metal frame. A series of photos from 1960s and 70s Japan. A collection of rare prints and books. A light installation based on the planets.

“Are you inspired?” I ask Peeta as we stand in a dim room with five spinning disco balls throwing out silver light. It sounds strange, and it kind of is, but it’s also peaceful, giving me the feeling of gliding through the cosmos.

Peeta looks at me. In the dark his eyes flash bright blue.

“I actually really like this,” he murmurs, looking around. Squares of light spelling out the names of planets splash across his face. “It’s calming.”

I smile at him. “I feel like I’m floating through space.” I reach out, take his hand. “It’s nice.”

Next, we go down the hill to the Rupertinum, the smaller, older half of the Museum der Moderne. The ancient medieval building is light and airy, filled with metalwork sculptures and various thought-provoking photography displays from around the world. There’s even a library filled with a special collection of books, which I happily get lost in while Peeta lingers in an exhibit dedicated to local art.

By the time we leave, I’ve bought a postcard of myself, wanting to remember the atmosphere curated so carefully in those rooms.

“You’re copying me,” Peeta says when I show it to him. “Are you going to write anything on the back?”

“Yeah. _Peeta is a massive art nerd and it’s really boring following him around galleries 24/7_.”

He shoves me lightly. “Hey, I saw you in that ‘five planets’ exhibition. You loved that.”

I loop my arm through his. “So what if I did? That doesn’t make me a nerd.”

“Says the girl who lusts over fancy old buildings and big rocks.”

We next head for the Franciscan Church. The building seems fairly unassuming on the inside, with its skinny tower and pale stone walls. But inside, the Gothic architecture is amazing. The ceiling, held up by slender pillars, is shaped like a kaleidoscope, geometric shapes blooming out in all directions. The alter is huge and commanding, a carved, golden thing that really is a piece of art in itself.

“I’m not religious, but you can’t deny these folks know how to build something beautiful,” Peeta says, craning his neck back to glance again at the high ceilings.

“That’s what my father used to say,” I murmur. Speaking any louder seems wrong, somehow. It feels like this space should only be used for whispering in or singing in. “Any time he went into a grand building like this, he’d sing. He had an amazing voice and the air would just… fill with it.”

“Do you sing?” Peeta asks quietly. I blink at him and try to think if he’s ever heard me sing. I don’t think he has. In all the months we’ve now known each other, I can hardly believe I haven’t sung in his presence, even a little. I know we’ve sung along to songs in the car, but I wasn’t making an effort then to sound good.

“Yeah,” I say, surprised at this realisation. “But I haven’t. Not for a long time.”

Peeta nods, seeming to guess that the reason for that is because of my grief. He’s right, of course. I didn’t sing much after my father passed, and when my mom and Prim died too, it only compounded my reaction.

“We used to sing together all the time,” I say after a moment. Peeta and I walk back up the aisle, past the pews, the hushed silence of the place almost like a weight on my shoulders. “I loved to sing with him.”

Peeta takes my hand. “I’d love to hear it one day.”

“I might disappoint you.”

“I really don’t think you can,” he says softly. “And if you are, I’ll pull out some distracting dance moves and we’ll forget all about it.”

“You don’t sing?” I ask him. He laughs under his breath.

“Not at all,” he says. Our shoulders bump against each other. “What did you used to sing with your dad?”

“Old Italian songs from his childhood. And stuff from Panem. You know the Valley Song?” Peeta furrows his brow. I try a line or two, my voice wavering and uncertain, even as the notes fall easily from my tongue.

“We sang that in elementary school,” he says, eyes sparking with recognition. “Did you sing the Hanging Tree song too?”

“Yes,” I nod, thrown back in time to hearing my father singing it in his rich voice. My mom always hated it, hated its origins, hated that such a dark, tragic song was peddled as a nursery rhyme among the children of the Seam. But in my father’s voice, it took on new meaning. It was still a tragedy, but it had love and light in it. It had hope.

I sing a bit of it, and Peeta watches me intently. I falter, then, under his gaze.

“Your voice is beautiful, Katniss,” he says.

I feel my face burning. I don’t know how he manages to do this. Fire compliments at me like confetti, leaving me feeling flustered or woefully lacking compared to his apparent perception of me.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and he kisses me on the cheek, sweet as ever.

We end a second perfect day with fondue. We’re guided outside to a table on a decking behind the rustic-looking restaurant, which I doubt at first, but we’re provided with blankets and sit under a heated lamp and it’s really rather pleasant. The fondue is obviously bad for our arteries but good for the soul and I inhale my bodyweight in cheese with glee, making sure to take plenty of photos to make my friends jealous.

“Now who’s obsessed?” Peeta says, as I twirl a piece of bread higher into the air, melty, gooey cheese stretching further and further.

“That _Germknödel_ is not as good as melted cheese, Peeta,” I say. “Have some respect.”

The string of cheese choses that moment to snap and smack me in the face. Peeta rocks back in his seat, laughing so loudly that the people sat at the other tables look over, and I hide under my hand as I try to regain my dignity.

“You’re so unhelpful,” I tell him, and he just sits there and wipes an imaginary tear of laughter from his eyes.

On our third and final day in Salzburg, I wake to find the bed empty and squint up at Peeta, who’s standing by the window with his cell phone and a cup of hotel room tea. I get out of bed and come up behind him, sliding my arms around his waist, and he jumps.

“Jesus,” he says. “You’re so quiet.”

I press my face into his spine, inhale the smell of him. We stay like that for a few moments, me just waking up properly, him looking at something on his phone. Eventually I twist around until I’m beside him. I pull the curtain aside and am met with a grey, miserable sight. Cold rain lashes fiercely against the windowpane, and thick clouds cover the city in all directions. It’s a stark contrast to the previous two days, the rain washing away the snow lingering on the rooftops of nearby buildings and driving most of the city—the tourists, at least—inside.

“No sightseeing today, then?” I ask. We have to catch our train into Germany at 3 p.m., and had planned to squeeze in a few more tourist activities before then, but this kind of weather makes sightseeing the last thing I want to do.

Peeta yawns hugely, pocketing his phone. He looks down at me and smiles, kissing me. “No,” he murmurs. “I don’t think so.”

“What should we do instead?” I ask. “We’ve got a few hours to kill.”

I think of that rainy day in Venice, when we lazed around in the hotel pool and in our room all day. That was the day I found Peeta’s postcards. The day we both admitted we had feelings for each other.

The memory makes me smile even wider, and I hug Peeta tighter to me.

“First, let’s get breakfast,” he says. “At least then we can say we’ve done at least one thing before we have to get on the train.”

“And then?”

“And then we can figure out what to do next. Maybe the rain will stop.”

We do go out to get some breakfast. Peeta stares longingly at the _Germknödel_ on the menu of the little café we battle through the morning rain to get to, but manages to order something different for once.

“Too much of a good thing,” he says to himself, looking determined to prove to himself that he has willpower.

Breakfast is peaceful, the sound of the rain and the grey clouds rolling in from the mountains making everything feel cosy. The café we’re at is right on the edge of the Salzach, and we watch the river rushing past, nearly overflowing the banks. I drink my coffee and eat cheese buns and text Jo.

**Jo:** _have u gone to the sound of music museum??? I need pictures of peeta in lederhosen!!!_

“Johanna says we should go to the _Sound of Music_ museum,” I tell Peeta.

“They do a tour, right?” he asks, and I nod, remembering reading about it from one of the leaflets left in our hotel room. “I don’t even know Johanna and somehow I find it hard to believe that _The Sound of Music_ is her kind of thing.”

“It’s not,” I say, replying to Jo with _you’re a freak, Mason_. “She just wants a picture of you in lederhosen.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the tour.”

“Well, tomorrow we’ll be in Germany. They’ll be plenty of time for lederhosen then.”

Peeta squints at me. “I have a feeling you have a thing for me wearing tight clothing.”

“I don’t know why you’d think that,” I say, sipping my coffee. Peeta scoffs.

“The wrestling singlet?” he points out, eyebrows lifting. “Objectively it’s not the sexiest thing to wear.”

“Depends on the person wearing it,” I counter.

“I’ll make sure to wear the helmet and mouth guard,” he says dryly. “That’s what really brings the outfit together.”

After breakfast, we step out into a fine drizzle and figure that maybe the worst of the weather has passed by. We decide to attempt to walk deeper into the city and see if some of the tourist traps will be worth visiting given that the earlier rain has driven back some of the crowds and thus, hopefully, some of the queues, but soon enough the rain returns as a fierce, cold pour, and we hightail it back to the hotel.

“Okay, so we’re definitely staying inside,” I say as we drip all over the hotel foyer and all the way up the stairs. My jeans are soaked through, and even Peeta’s trusty boots are soaked through, so we both have to strip off and change into dry clothes. I get changed first and lay on the bed texting while Peeta gets more towels from the front desk and showers. I decide to Facetime Gale, who asks about our post-Austria plans.

Our plans are loose, but we intend to stay in the south for about a week, driving through Bavaria and visiting beautiful lake-side towns and dramatic, fairy-tale castles, before heading towards the natural hot springs and spas in Baden-Baden. We’ll head north through Germany, then, and probably spend the festive season in Berlin, if we decide we like it, or in Norway, if we make good progress.

“You’re leaving today?” Gale asks.

“Yep. Heading into Bavaria first. Then Norway.”

“It sounds like it’ll be good,” Gale says. “Madge loves Sweden and I’m sure Norway is just as good.”

“Maybe you could come too,” I say. “Spend Christmas with us.”

“My mom would be upset if I did,” Gale says. “She’d be all like _oh, so you can travel to another country to be with your friends for Christmas, but you can’t come back to Panem to see me and your siblings_?” He sighs heavily. I laugh at him.

“She has a point.”

“I offered to fly them all out last year and she acted like I was determined to convince Vick and Rory to move to Switzerland too.”

“She misses you, Gale,” I say, and he scrubs his face with his hand. “She misses her baby boy.”

“Ugh, don’t,” he says. “I’m almost thirty, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m going to tell her about how ungrateful you are.”

Gale shakes his head. “I can’t come home for Christmas anyway. We’re gonna go and see Madge’s mom.”

“How is she?” I ask. I’ve never met the woman, but I know that for most of Madge’s life she’s been in and out of hospital.

“As good as she can be,” Gale says. “Anyway. How are you and Peeta?”

I talk about our travels a little bit more in-depth than I have through text, including about the lake in Innsbruck.

“Just like when we were kids,” Gale muses nostalgically. “You should come back to Switzerland in the summer. We can go boating all day in the sun.”

I smile at the thought. “That sounds nice.”

“You’ll probably be back in Italy, though,” Gale points out. “I can see it already.”

“Madge’ll finally get you to come and visit me,” I say. “She’ll love Italy. And you can meet Peeta’s friends.”

“The super attractive couple?”

“Yeah. Annie and Finnick.”

“I don’t know, Catnip,” Gale says, only half-joking. “Madge was already pretty enamoured by Peeta. I don’t want an Italian man luring her away.”

I laugh. “I actually think Annie is the dark horse to look out for.”

Peeta and I laze around, half-heartedly packing our bags and staring out through the glass at the dreary scene outside, and pass the time watching TV and making out. Not a terrible way to kill a few hours, if I’m honest. Soon enough we check out and make our way to the train station. Despite the weather, we’re in a good mood, and I happily scroll through my phone to see all our photos from the past few days. Austria has been good to us, and I can only imagine that Bavaria will continue the trend.

We’re in the middle of chowing down on some sandwiches when Peeta’s phone buzzes. He ignores it and we keep eating and gushing over what is pretty damn good platform food, and it’s only when I come back after darting to the bathroom before our train is due to arrive that I see him staring steadfastly at his screen with a particularly look on his face.

I get a hit of déjà vu, suddenly, of being back in Padua. Maybe it’s the way he’s frowning at his phone, the curve of his eyebrows. Maybe it’s something else. A feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“You alright?” I ask him, and he jolts slightly, looking up at me.

“Hey,” he says, evidently distracted. “Yeah. Fine.” A beat. “My brother is getting married.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, and eventually settle on saying, “Oh, well that’s good news.” I’m not sure how happy I should be. Obviously the news is, in general, pleasant, but Peeta’s relationship with his brother is an odd one that I haven’t yet been able to figure out, and I’m not sure if this news truly is happy. As far as I know, the relationship between the two brothers is sparse, strained. Two people bound and torn apart by the same blood. Two people who want to reunite but find a barrier of history between them.

Peeta’s told me little bits here and there. I think he’s unsure of how to explain it all, and I’m not going to force him to if he doesn’t want to or can’t. But I know that Rye feels an immense amount of guilt for what he views as standing by while his younger brother was abused, forgetting, as Peeta has said, that _he was a kid too, he had to live with her too._

“Yeah,” Peeta says. “Yeah, it is good.”

I rub his arm. “Do you know his partner?”

“A little. I’ve only met Taylor once.” He clears his throat. “Here,” he says, handing me his phone. “Read.”

It’s a text conversation between the two brothers. A long paragraph has come in from Rye. The last text in the chat was from Peeta, replying a week ago.

_Peet. Hope everything’s alright. Fen loved Germany when he visited for that college exchange. Glad you get to visit too. I’ll get right to the point—me and Taylor are getting married December 10 th. It’s going to be a small thing. Some of Tay’s family will be there and so will dad’s sister. It’ll be the ceremony and then a small reception in Capitol. I would really like it if you could be there. Let me know. R._

“December tenth?” I say when I look back up at Peeta. He’s chewing his thumb, anxiety clear in his face.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Do you want to go?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

“And it’s in Panem?”

Peeta rubs his hand with his face and groans. “Yeah.”

I look at the train timetable. Ten minutes before our train arrives, the one meant to take us into Bavaria.

Peeta grimaces at me. “I don’t know what to do,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, Katniss. I’m ruining everything.”

“Hey,” I say, putting my hand on his forearm. “You’re not ruining anything, Peeta.”

I think back to Sant’Oreste. To Rome. Florence. To Venice. All these places where we could have parted ways but just decided to keep going. Most of the time it was a last minute decision. I know most of mine were fuelled by the sense that continuing on without Peeta would be like ripping a hole in my chest, but the point still stands. I don’t want to go anywhere without him.

That was then. Now I’ve had months to sit opposite him and get to know him. To sit beside him in the car and watch him frowning at maps or sketching the landscape we pass through or sleeping with his jacket thrown over him like a blanket. I’ve woken up to find him watching me sleep too. I’ve woken up to fresh coffee. I’ve danced with him in the streets, under the moonlight. I’ve kissed him under the Italian sun. I’ve held his hand in the Swiss mountains. I’ve argued with him. Yelled. Cried. Laughed. It really hasn’t been long that I’ve even known Peeta, but it feels like I’ve had a lifetime with him.

But we have to go home at some point, even though I know I’m definitely avoiding it, and I can see that Peeta is conflicted about it as well.

It’s different for him, even if it’s still incredibly hard. He has at least some family left. Blood family. It might be a fraught thing with his brother, but it’s there. What I would give to have Prim still in my life, or my mother. What I would give to have that connection to call me back.

I’ve always known, deep down, that I’d have to come back to Panem at some point. Face what happened. I had a life in Seamtown, whether I like it or not. One day I will have to go back.

I know it will hurt. I know that. But if I’ve learnt anything in the past few months, it’s that it’s much easier to not go through it alone. I wallowed in my grief for so long, and Peeta pulled me out of it. If I had known how much he would mean to me when he walked over in that tiny square in Sant’Oreste… I honestly think I would have run away. If I had already known, I would have been afraid of it.

So I have to embrace the unknown this time, too. I have to be brave. It’s much easier to dredge up my courage when Peeta is there. I can’t run forever.

“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath. “Okay.”

“Our train’s coming in,” Peeta says. “Come on.”

I look at him. I feel wild. My heart is pounding like I’ve run a race.

“We should go to Panem,” I blurt out. Peeta stills, palm resting on the top of my suitcase handle.

“What?” he asks.

“We should go. Together. Germany wasn’t finalised, so it’s not like we have reservations to cancel. And we’ve done this a million times already—deciding go somewhere together at the last minute. This isn’t any different.”

Peeta’s brows pull together. “This is a hell of a lot different, Katniss,” he says. “This is _Panem_. It’s a difficult place for both of us. It’s not some blank city or town to visit, where no one knows us.”

I take a steadying breath. “I need to go back to Panem at some point,” I tell him. “Back to the Seam. I know I’m running from it. So why not return now?”

“Because it wasn’t part of the plan,” Peeta says, like it’s obvious. I cup his face in my hands, look him directly in the eyes.

“Peeta, none of this was part of my plan,” I say earnestly. “I never had a plan. I just wanted to be… _gone_. And then you turned up and maybe it was a moment of madness to go travelling with you even though you were a perfect stranger to me, but this has been the best few months of my life, and it’s because of you.”

He shakes his head, opening his mouth like he wants to disagree.

“Peeta,” I say, and he looks at me like a kicked puppy. “Let’s go to Panem. It won’t be the same as deciding to go to Florence together, or Rome, or any of that. It’s gonna be really fucking hard. But I want to go if I’m still with you.”

Peeta puts his hands on my wrists.

“Katniss,” he says, sounding like he’s in pain. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’d rather leave me here by myself?”

“No, no, I—”

“And you’re not asking me. I’m telling you. We’re gonna go back to Panem together. Deal with our shit.” I feel a lump of fear bubble into my throat and swallow it back down. “And then we see what happens afterwards. But there’s no set plan here. No plan to ruin.”

“I haven’t seen my brother since I left.”

“I know. I haven’t been home since…” I trail off. “I can’t put it off forever. I have things I need to do. Things that have been hanging over my head since I arrived in Europe.”

The train pulls in behind us, loud, and people begin to disembark.

“What do you want to do?” Peeta asks. “Do you seriously want to go back home?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, honest as I can be. “Maybe this is the universe telling me it’s time to.”

“I can’t—”

“You’re not making me do anything,” I insist, before he can guilt himself any further. “Peeta, I promise.”

“Okay,” he says, quiet. “Okay.”

I kiss him on the cheek. “We need to get on this train.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We do.”

We get on the train. We buy tickets towards Munich, a two hour journey. And then we buy plane tickets back to Panem.

It feels like I’m entering in my destination as _Pluto_. Panem just feels so disembodied from everything right now, so distant. But I buy the ticket and get the confirmation email and then it’s finalised. It’s a plan. Finally. A certain thing.

I can tell Peeta is stuck in his head, so I leave him there for most of the train journey, lost in my own thoughts. Thoughts of home. Of my mom and Prim. Of how quickly I left. Of how suddenly I’m coming back.

I laugh at myself. I’ll be back in the Seam this time tomorrow. Back in the place I ran from. Except this time I won’t be alone. I’ll be bringing someone with me.

We arrive in Munich and head straight for the airport.

“I feel like I’m going on like… an inverted vacation,” Peeta says. “Being here feels like home and Panem is this faraway land I’m visiting.”

It’s like he’s read my mind.

“I mean, I know it’s not,” he says.

“But it damn well feels like it,” I finish. He nods.

You’d think we were waiting to be jointly executed, the way we migrate through the airport, waiting for our gate to be announced, for the plane that will take us away from Europe and every fragile thing we’ve got here. Nothing permanent, no house or jobs, sure, but it’s where I found him. Where he found me. It’s been months of paradise. Not always perfect, but a million times better than I ever thought I would get.

And now we have to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Peeta says a while later. The airport hums around us, loud and busy. The world pours back into my head.

“You need to stop apologising,” I murmur, taking his hand and leaning against him even though the unforgiving metal armrest jabs between us. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

“You don’t have to come,” he replies.

“I know,” I say. “I have to go back. I can’t ignore what happened forever.”

“My therapist would be proud of you for saying that,” he says, his first near-joke since we left Salzburg.

I elbow him, relieved to see a smile twitch its way on his face.

“Is this exposure therapy?” I ask. “Are we masochists?”

Peeta looks at me, still smiling in that sad way of his. “If that’s what you want to call it, maybe,” he ventures. “I’m inclined to just say it’s stupid.”

I push my hand through his hair. “Your brother is getting married and the first thing you wanted to do was go and see him. Be there for him.” Peeta’s face tightens. “I don’t think that’s stupid.”

He hums like he doesn’t agree. “Perhaps we should withhold our conclusions until after the fact,” he suggests. “It might be a disaster.”

“It won’t be,” I say, as if I don’t have a dead family to go back to. It’s going to be wrecking. I know this. And I’m not certain there’s any way to prepare for that.

…

We land at Panem Central Airport, and it’s raining.

“Welcome back,” Peeta murmurs as we peer through the glass at the sodden runaway. I pry his white-knuckle grip from the armrest.

I’m back. In Panem. It’s like being jolted awake from a perfect dream.

“I already miss Europe,” I say. “I miss the sun. I miss the quiet.”

By _quiet_ , I mean that we were essentially anonymous on our travels. Apart from Annie and Finnick, and then Gale and Madge, it was just Peeta and I against the world. Two strangers meeting and not leaving each other.

Here, especially in the Seam, there will be people I recognise. Places that hold meaning. The memories will flood back in a way that the Italian sun and Swiss Alps have managed to hold back, for the most part.

The wait to disembark takes for ever. Baggage claims and security is long-winded. But eventually we get out of the airport and into a rented car and set off, towards the mountains which hold both Seamtown and Merchantville, albeit an hour apart from one another.

On the plane we decided that Peeta would drop me off in the Seam and then drive to Merchantville to meet up with Rye. The day of the wedding, he’ll come back, and we’ll drive to the venue. As we move away from the airport, I text Gale, updating him on where I am. He calls twenty minutes later.

“When did you decide to go back?” he asks me. “And why? Is everything okay?”

He sounds like I’ve just told him I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head. His incredulity isn’t unjustified. The notion that I’d go back to Panem at all is a crazy one.

“I’m fine,” I say. Peeta stares silently ahead as we eat up the miles. “I’m with Peeta.” I reach over, put my hand on his thigh.

“So you both just decided to go home?” Gale asks. “Why? Catnip, what am I missing?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I say. “Peeta—his brother’s getting married. He wanted to go back. I’m coming with him.”

“To Merchantville?”

“No. I’ll be in the Seam.”

“Are you staying with my mom?”

For some reason that thought hadn’t occurred to me. But of course I will be. Of course Hazelle Hawthorne will welcome me with open arms. The realisation makes me choke up. I’m not alone here. I won’t be alone in the Seam. I won’t be stuck in a town that used to be filled with people I’m never going to see again. Of course not.

I’ll have Gale’s family. My second family.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice raspy. “Yeah, I’ll stay with her.”

Gale blows out a breath. “Jesus, Katniss. First you run away to Europe, and then you just go back to Panem without telling anyone?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t mean to do this.”

“We worry about you, is all,” Gale says, sounding irritated but in the way that a brother does when his younger sibling does something that could get themselves hurt.

“I know,” I say. “I know. But I’m okay, honestly. It was kind of a last minute decision. Peeta got the text about the wedding and we… kind of just decided to go. Just like that.”

Gale huffs. “Yeah, I’m starting to pick up on a trend with you two,” he says. “So you’re back already?”

“Yeah. Landed about half an hour ago. Rented a car.”

“My mom’s gonna be pissed. You come and visit before I do.”

I laugh wetly, wiping at my eyes. “I’ll tell her everything you’ve said about her,” I threaten. Gale sighs.

“Where’s Peeta staying?” he asks.

“Merchantville, for a few nights,” I say. I look over at the man in question. “And then it’ll be the wedding.”

“And then you’ll come back to Europe?”

“Yeah. Germany, maybe. Or Norway. Or the North Pole. I don’t know.”

“Well, call me when you decide. And maybe don’t decide at the last minute. You’re giving me whiplash.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll try and keep you in mind.”

“Good,” he says. “Alright. Well, have a good trip. Text me or Madge when you’re safe. Hug my mom for me. And Posy.”

“Not Vick or Rory?”

“No, leave those little bastards out,” Gale laughs.

The call ends. I text Jo too. Let her know I’m in the country. _Surprise!_

“Gale?” Peeta asks of the call. I nod. “How is he?”

“Surprised that I’m back. He can join the club.”

I peer through the glass at the dense pine forests and low, purple mountains of Panem, now turned grey in the rain. It’s been over a year since I’ve been here, and before that I attended college out of state and didn’t visit home as much as I wish I had. This is the state I grew up in, the place where I had my parents and my sister. It’s the place where I lost them, all of them. These hills are filled with so many memories and yet they ring empty and hollow. A lump settles in my stomach. It’s not dread I’m feeling. It’s something else. The sensation of walking into a graveyard and not knowing who you’ll find under the freshly-turned earth.

“It’s strange to be back,” Peeta says, as the terrain becomes hillier. It’s almost like the Alps. Almost. “I didn’t think it would be _this_ weird. I mean, I grew up here. And I haven’t been gone for that long. But I feel like I’ve been gone for decades.”

I know how he feels. We both fled the country to get space and to grieve. To escape. We probably left around the same time. Maybe we were both on the same plane. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were. We both hid and we both clung to solitude until we bumped into each other. I suppose it only makes sense in our narrative that we’d end up home again, travelling through the shadows and the traumas like we travelled through all the peace and beauty of being abroad.

“I don’t even know if I miss Panem,” I say, my voice barely a whisper over the sound of the wheels on wet tarmac. “Even Gale’s family will only be here for a year or two longer, until his little sister graduates high school. And then there’ll be no reason for me to be here.”

Peeta glances at me, jaw tight like he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek. I suddenly feel so young and so very scared of the world.

“Home’s a person,” he says. “A feeling. It doesn’t have to be a place.”

I swallow hard. “Why do I have a feeling you can read my mind?”

Peeta takes my hand. Squeezes it like it’s a lifeline. “We’ll be okay,” he tells me, like I wasn’t just promising him the same thing in Munich. “We will.”

Seamtown surges up towards me. Peeta and I don’t talk much the entire way, staring through the glass, stuck in our own heads. Jo rages at me over text, asking why the hell I think I can just jump from one place to another without telling her, asking me if I’ve always been this spontaneous, and whether I’m aware of the stress I cause her.

**Me:** _I’m sorry, Jo._

**Me:** _I really do miss you._

**Jo:** _you age me, brainless. Terribly._

I look out at the sweeping pine forest damp with rain and fog, the purple and grey mountains that were once filled with coal and metal. I watch my childhood flooding past me. I think of Italy, with its warmth and golden light. I think of Switzerland and Austria, with their winding mountain passes and twinkling lights. And now I’m here, in Panem, passing hills of slag and shanty towns and staring at the fishing tackle shop my father used to take me to, the hospital my mom worked at, the high school, the bridge Gale crashed his first car into, the river I used to swim in during the summer months, the corner store I used to buy ice cream with Prim at. Little moments. Little places, seared into my mind.

“Has it changed much since you were here last?” Peeta asks. I forget that he’s only been to the Seam a handful of times.

“No. It looks exactly the same.”

The rain has stopped by the time we reach the main street in Seamtown. Peeta pulls over in a deserted lot and we get out. I heft my backpack onto my shoulder and my trusty suitcase onto the gravel.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asks, looking around with concern. “I don’t mind driving you to Gale’s mom’s house.”

“I want to walk,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

Peeta clears his throat. He has shadows under his eyes. He’s been anxious ever since he got his brother’s text, and it’s only built up, knotting up his shoulders. I reach up and smooth my hands over them, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference.

I look around the lot. “This is just like Rome, huh?”

Peeta’s face does something that makes my chest go tight.

“In Rome, I thought I was never going to see you again,” he says. “Twice.”

“But you did. And then I never left,” I remind him. He pulls me close. “It’s only for a few days,” I say. “And then you’ll pick me up for the wedding.” I close my eyes, put my nose in his shoulder. “It’s only a few days,” I whisper.

“I’ll miss you. God, I’m gonna miss you.”

I squeeze him harder against me. “Maybe some time apart will do us some good,” I say. “We’re going to get too co-dependent if we’re not careful.”

Peeta chuckles, but when we pull apart I can see that his eyes are shining.

“I think it’s too late for me,” he says, cupping my face in his hands. “You’re gonna break my heart.”

“No I won’t,” I say. “Unless Rye turns out to be cuter than you, of course.”

“I can assure you he’s not.”

I kiss him hard. The world spins around us.

“I’ll be an hour away,” I say, half to remind him, and half to remind myself. “It’s two days. That’s even less than Rome.”

“Why are you so calm?” he asks me. “I feel like I’m going to explode.”

“It’s a front,” I say. “I’ll explode once you leave.”

He grimaces. “Don’t say that,” he groans. “I feel bad leaving you as it is.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have dragged me all the way here,” I say, and he pulls me in for another hug, arms going all the way round me. I close my eyes and listen to how fast his heart is beating in his chest.

“You need to go,” I tell him. Neither of us move. I look up at him and kiss him again. “Before it gets too dark,” I add. “Go, Peeta.”

He kisses me again, and then climbs back into the car. He rolls down the window. I take his hand.

“This is ridiculous,” I say.

“I might have the Titanic theme in my phone if you give me a minute,” he says, and I laugh, loud, genuine. Trust him to be able to make me do that even in moments like this.

“Are you Jack or Rose?” I ask, and he pulls a face.

“I’m Jack, obviously. You couldn’t draw me like one of your French girls to save your life.”

“Fine,” I say. I lean in and kiss him again, and then force myself to step back.

“See you in a few days,” he says, starting the engine.

“Call me when you get to Merchantville.”

“Text me when you get to the Hawthorne’s.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

I stand back further, onto the grass. “Go!” I say, and thankfully he does so, and I watch him drive out of the lot and into the street. I watch him turn south towards the highway and out of sight.

After pulling myself together, I begin the walk through the Seam. It isn’t _that_ far, but it’s far enough that I probably should have called a taxi or Hazelle or hell, Vick is old enough to drive now, but I want to walk. I need to walk. I need the damp mountain air and the space and time to myself to prepare to see Gale’s family. Seeing Gale and Madge was emotional enough. This is probably going to be just as bad.

I walk and walk and inhale the smell of pines and remember what it was to be sixteen and walking along here to and from work because I couldn’t afford a car of my own. I remember Gale thundering down these country roads in his dad’s old truck, and trying to do donuts in the abandoned mining lots. The Seam itself quickly melts into quiet, tree-lined streets. It’s a bit of an ordeal to haul my suitcase all this way, but if anything, I’m stubborn, and I’ve dragged this thing around half of Europe, so it can handle a bit of Panem.

I do my best not to think of Peeta. Of how he’s feeling, of how complicated this is going to be for him. I’m grateful that he wants me to be here for Rye’s wedding, especially given how tense the brothers’ relationship is. Though, I suppose, Peeta and I have shared enough of our respectful baggage as it is. There’s little that could take me off guard now.

Or that’s what I think, until I reach the quiet street that contains Hazelle’s house, and I have to take a few deep breaths at the sight of the oak out front with the tire swing still hanging from it.

“Jesus,” I say to myself.

I walk up to the house. I set my suitcase down on the front porch, and my rucksack. I knock. Ten seconds later, there are footsteps. Then, a person behind the door, sliding the latch across. And then Hazelle is there, behind the screen door.

We stand there for a moment, not saying anything.

“Hi, Hazelle,” I say, and she near-shrieks, flinging open the door.

“Am I hallucinating?” she exclaims, hugging me tightly and then holding me at arm’s length to look at me, and then hugging me again. “Oh my god, what are you _doing_ here?!”

And so I explain. Over two cups of coffee and a generous helping of her famous chocolate cake.

“And now you’re here, in the Seam,” she says. She tilts her head. “I didn’t think you’d be back here for a while longer.”

“Me neither. But Peeta wanted to come back and see his brother. And I… I didn’t want to be without him. I’ve seen him every day for the past few months. I’m kind of attached.”

“Does Gale know?” Hazelle asks.

“I called him earlier,” I say, and she shakes her head.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, reaching across the table to take my hands. “I never would have guessed… but I’m so glad you’re alright, sweetheart. You won’t know how worried I was about you when I found out you’d left.”

“I shouldn’t have gone like that,” I say, getting upset again, riddled with guilt and regret.

“I’m not blaming you,” she insists. “I understand why you did it. But I’m so glad you’re back, at least for a little while.” She smiles at me, that motherly smile I didn’t realise I’d missed so much. It’s a physical warmth I can feel in my chest.

“I wouldn’t be here if not for Peeta. And he wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t said that I wanted to come back.”

Hazelle shakes her head. “I know hardly anything about this young man who’s clearly done so much for you.”

“Hazelle…” I murmur, embarrassed. It’s like talking to Jo and Gale and Madge, and having them tell me how happy I am when I’m around Peeta.

“No, no,” she interrupts. “Tell me everything about him. Are you going to bring him to meet me?”

“He’s driving over to pick me up for the wedding. You could see him then, if things go alright.”

“Good,” she says, sounding pleased. “Now, tell me about him. I need to understand who he is.”

I explain, and doing so makes me feel calmer and calmer. Less upset about being back in the Seam. Less upset about knowing Peeta is an hour away for the next two days. Less upset about everything.

“And the rest was history,” Hazelle finishes. I nod. She smiles softly at me. “It sounds like a romance novel, Katniss, it really does.”

“Thanks, Hazelle,” I say. “I guess it has been kind of magical.”

“He makes you smile. You haven’t stopped since you started talking about him.”

“He’s the best.”

“And you’re here for his brother’s wedding?”

“Yeah. The invite came out of nowhere. I think he almost didn’t want to go.”

“To his brother’s wedding?”

“Yeah. Things have been… difficult between them ever since Fenton, the eldest, and their dad died.” I shrug. “Being back in Panem was kind of scary.”

Hazelle nods, brows furrowing deeply. “I heard about the fire, over in Merchantville,” she says after a minute. “A horrible, horrible thing. They had to send over two engines from the Seam. A terrible travesty.” She eyes me for a moment. “I don’t know if I should tell you this,” she says thoughtfully. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter now. And you might like to hear this little bit of serendipity.” She sips her coffee. “When your mother was in high school, she was real close friends with Farrell Mellark. They were like two peas in a pod.”

“My mom and Peeta’s father?”

“Yep.” My face must be a picture because Hazelle laughs. “Don’t forget that your mama was a Merchantville girl, born and raised! After she went travelling I think they drifted apart, but I know they were awfully close for a long while. And then Dahlia came back married to your father and moved to the Seam.” Hazelle shrugs. “Ce la vie, and all that. If I recall correctly, Farrell went to the funeral. It can’t have been a week before he passed.”

“Small world,” I murmur, hardly able to believe it.

“So small that her daughter and his son, complete strangers, found each other in the middle of the Italian countryside.”

“I keep being reminded of how impossible it was,” I say, smiling at the memory of sitting in the square in Sant’Oreste with my book and my loneliness and seeing Peeta, glowing gold and butchering Italian, standing there on the cobbles. That moment really did change my life.

I surprise Posy and Gale’s younger brothers when they arrive home from high school and from their respective jobs, and the rest of the afternoon and evening is a blur, really. I forgot how much I missed the Hawthornes. How truly part of their family I really am. We eat a homemade meal around the table and talk for hours, catching up on the past year. Jo texts me back with several lines of question marks, followed by:

**Jo:** _what the fuck, brainless???_

**Jo:** _I expect a visit before u two lovebirds leave again_

**Jo:** _because everyone knows you’re going to whisk yourselves away for another romantic voyage through some European country ASAP_

By nine p.m., I’m happy but exhausted, and hole up in what used to be Gale’s room for the night. I check my phone. Peeta texted me when he got into Merchantville, and promised to call later, and now I’m just waiting to hear his voice. I lie there in Gale’s old twin bed and feel terribly alone. Months of having Peeta by my side has been a bliss I didn’t fully appreciate until right now.

When he does call, it’s late. I pick up eagerly.

“Sorry for waiting so long,” he says. His voice sounds tinny and far away.

“It’s okay,” I reply. “How’s it going?”

“I drove to Rye’s place. We talked. It’s been… weird. It’s as if I recognise him, but know nothing about him. I haven’t seen him since the funeral and we hardly spoke then. For the past year it’s just been texts, really. A few calls here and there.”

“But it went alright?” I ask. I know he was nervous. I can feel his anxiety through the phone, like he’s sat beside me on the train to Munich or the plane to Panem.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It was nice. I missed him more than I realised. He’s still my brother, you know?”

“Does he seem nervous about the wedding?”

“He’s pretending he isn’t.”

“Have you met Taylor?”

“Once or twice. He told me he’d met someone but I didn’t expect them to get married. They’ve only been together a year and a half.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him,” I say.

“I haven’t even asked how you are yet,” Peeta says. “How are you, Katniss? How’s Gale’s family?”

“Really good,” I say. “I’m fine. It was a bit emotional but it’s been like a homecoming. I didn’t realised how much I missed them either.” I smile faintly. “I texted Jo as well. She wants us to visit.”

Peeta laughs quietly. “I’m kind of intimidated by her.”

I groan. “She’ll get a big head if you tell her that,” I say. “That’s exactly the reaction she wants.”

“I miss you,” Peeta says after a few moments of silence. I roll over onto my side and close my eyes. Outside it’s beginning to rain.

“I miss you too,” I whisper. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

“It’s weird not being around you.”

“Told you we had gotten co-dependent.”

“I don’t think that’s such a bad thing to be,” he says, and I hear the soft smile in his voice, and feel a little less lonely.

The next day, with all the Hawthornes otherwise occupied with their own lives, I borrow Vick’s car and drive through the Seam. I take photos of the place as if it’s some beautiful Italian or Alpine location, and send them to Peeta.

 _Prettiest place I’ve been all year,_ I text him. He replies with a photo of downtown Merchantville. _We’ve got you beat,_ he says.

I spend the morning working up the courage to visit the Seamtown cemetery. It takes an hour for me to drive up the yew-lined street to the entrance, and another hour of staring at the trees and listening to the rain thundering on the car roof for me to actually get out and walk through the gates.

But I find the headstones. I stand there looking at them, at how the grass has long regrown over my mom and Prim. I can remember standing here a year ago. The sight of the overturned earth is burned into my retinas. But now it’s just green grass and primroses planted by the headstones.

I crouch there under my umbrella and try not to let the grief hit me in such a big wave that I collapse under it. I just let it roll over in ripples, a slow, steady attack that makes it hard to breathe but that I can weather.

“God,” I say. “Is it always going to be this hard?”

The headstones say nothing. The rain continues to fall. I stand up, my knees protesting after being in a cramped position for so long. And then I just talk. I talk and talk and talk. About how shitty everything was for such a long time. How things brightened when I met Peeta. How it’s still painful but that I have hope, now, despite everything. I tell Prim all about Peeta, knowing she was a true romantic. I tell mom all about how beautiful Italy was, about the church in Rome.

“I took a picture there,” I say, pulling up my phone and finding it. “With Peeta.” I stare at it, eyes blurred with tears, and then laugh, the sound thick in my throat. “I’ve just realised how much it looks like that old picture of you and dad,” I whisper. I stare at the image. At Peeta looking at me while I smile obnoxiously towards the camera. It wasn’t long ago, but it feels like it is, this warm, sunny memory belonging to another life. In my parents’ photo, my dad is doing the exact same thing. Smiling down at my mom in her late-80s high-waisted jeans and big hair. Peeta and I have just inverted it. Peeta has the big blond hair and I the dark, straight locks. But Peeta still looks at me like that. Like it’s a love comparable to that of my mom and dad. And yet it was so early on. We’d known each other for less than two weeks.

“I wish you could have met him,” I say. “It’s not fair that you can’t.”

I only leave the cemetery when my stomach rumbles. It’s the early afternoon, and still raining, the sound having lulled me into a trance. This visit scared me a hell of a lot, but now that I’m here, now that I’ve said what I wanted to say for months, I feel calm and collected in a bone-deep way that I haven’t felt for a long time.

Hazelle’s back from work when I arrive at her house, and she can clearly tell that I’ve had a bit of an emotional few hours. She insists on baking to get my mind off things, and as the smell of cookies fills the air, she gets me to go through my European travels in more detail than the day before.

“He’s rather good looking, isn’t he?” she murmurs, looking down her nose through her glasses at the photo on screen. It’s Peeta in Venice, lit perfectly in the sun, smiling in a way that makes me want to squish his cheeks in my hands but also haul him somewhere private to I can kiss him breathless.

“He clearly makes you happy, Katniss,” Hazelle says. “I was worried about you, after everything that happened. I hoped you’d find someone one day, someone who could make you feel good again. I think you managed it.”

“Sooner than I expected,” I say.

“Much sooner,” she agrees. “Not that you seem to be complaining.”

“Madge liked him a lot when we went to visit her and Gale.”

“And I can imagine my son being a little…”

“Protective?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what happened. He would’ve given Peeta the shovel talk if Johanna hadn’t done it already.”

“I want to see this young man for myself. I know your mom would have some stern words for him so I think it’s my duty do fulfil that role for your sake.”

“You’ll like him. Even Gale admitted he liked him.”

“And I’m much nicer than that grouchy son of mine,” Hazelle says, laughing.

I Facetime with Peeta later in the day, sat out on the porch in a blanket, listening to the rain. When he picks up, I can’t help but notice how harried he looks. I know that if I had called after my trip to the cemetery, I would have looked exactly the same.

“Are you alright?” I ask. He’s outside somewhere, and I can hear the faint sound of traffic. “Where are you?”

“I’m okay,” he says, pushing his hair from his face. He’s pacing and I don’t believe his attempts at assuring me. “I just went to go and see an old friend in town and as I was walking back I, uh, I saw my mom.” His eyes dart back and forth. “She didn’t see me but fuck. I didn’t know what to do.”

My heart breaks for him. “Where you are now?”

“Heading back to Rye’s place. I took the long route. Don’t want to bother him with all my shit when his wedding’s tomorrow. It’s not like he doesn’t see her around town all the time.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, feeling helpless. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It just… shook me up.”

I furrow my brow. “What can I do to help you?” I ask him. I hate being away from him when in any other situation I’d be able to comfort him, be close to him, or at least tell him I was there for him in person instead of over the phone.

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Just—I just want to hear your voice. That always makes me feel better. What have you been up to today?”

I laugh wryly. “Well, I went and visited my mom and sister’s graves. Cried for like, an hour and a half in the rain.”

Peeta laughs too. “God, how pitiful are we?” he says, scrubbing his face with his hand.

“Sorry, I can’t exactly make you feel better right now,” I say. It’s funny in a horribly morbid sense, and I can’t help but laugh again, even though I can feel my eyes welling with tears.

“At least you did it,” he says. “I drove past the cemetery and couldn’t even get myself to stop the car.”

“Peeta, don’t beat yourself up,” I say. “Please don’t do that to yourself.”

He grimaces. “I should’ve at least gone in. I just couldn’t.”

“It took me all morning to work up the courage.”

He shrugs, clearly unable to be swayed on this. “What else have you been up to?” he asks, eager to change the subject. I don’t fight his efforts.

“I baked cookies with Hazelle.”

“What kind?”

“Gingersnap.”

“I’ll have to test them tomorrow. Give you my official baker’s son verdict.”

I smile at the idea. “I’ll try and save you one. No promises, though. Gale’s brothers inhale baked goods even quicker than you.”

“I doubt that’s possible.”

“How’s Merchantville?” I ask. “Aside from… you know.”

Peeta presses his lips together, peering into the sunlight and then back at me. “It isn’t home anymore,” he says. “Rye’s here but… no one else is. The bakery is gone. Someone else lives in my grandparents’ house.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Honestly? Pretty fucking glad,” he says. “It feels wrong to say, but I’m glad I’m not here. I’m glad they’re not here to see it.” He shakes his head. “Rye and Taylor are moving to Philly after the wedding. And then there’ll be no one alive to come back for.”

“You can come back to the Seam,” I offer. “Hazelle wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”

“You want to stay in Panem a while longer?”

“No,” I reply. “No. It’s just that… my parents and sister are gone. I can never get them back. But I’m not entirely alone, you know? I guess I was scared to come back and realise that it was like they never existed at all. But I have people here, and they care about me.” I cringe. That’s exactly what Peeta doesn’t have in Merchantville anymore. “And they’d care about you too, Peeta. I know it.”

Peeta smiles sadly at me. “I hate being here,” he says, voice withering into a whisper. “I hate it.”

“Leave, then,” I say. “Leave. Drive over tonight instead of tomorrow.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I can’t just turn up like that. That’s not fair.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, muting the call and hurrying inside to find Hazelle and explain the predicament.

“Sweetheart, Peeta is more than welcome to stay the night,” she says. “You don’t even have to ask.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, earnest, kissing her on the cheek before going back out onto the porch and unmuting Peeta. “I just spoke to Gale’s mom. She said she’d be happy for you to come early and stay the night. She already said she wanted to meet you, Peeta. Please come.”

And so he does. He ends the call saying he’ll leave as soon as he’s told Rye, and twenty minutes later, he texts me.

**Peeta (Sant’Oreste):** _Rye told me to go. I’m just getting into the car. See you in an hour._

The hour drags by. I eat more gingersnaps. I bug Hazelle like I’m fourteen again.

“I never thought I’d see you going crazy over a boy,” she says, seeming amused. “He must be something pretty special.”

“You have no idea,” I say.

I sit out under the cover of the porch and wait for him. And sure enough, an hour later, the rental car appears at the end of the street. I hurry down the path in my coat and wave at him. He pulls up beside the sidewalk and jumps out and I wrap my arms around him as tightly as I can.

He smells so good. He feels so good. And his voice when he says _Katniss_. It makes me feel like I’ve spent longer than twenty fours away from him.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he says when we pull apart. I smooth my thumbs over the dark circles under his eyes.

“You don’t have to go back to Merchantville,” I say. “You can stay with me.”

His face crumples a little, and I lean in to kiss him before I can begin to get any more upset. I pour everything I have into the kiss. I try to tell him how much he means to me and how much it’s sucked to be apart from him. Months of close-quarters will do that to a person. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

He rests his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to be away from you again,” he says. “Fuck it if that makes us co-dependent.”

I laugh, a wet, pathetic sound. “You’ve always been so dramatic,” I say, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He grabs his backpack from the car and hands me something. A postcard. Because of course he did.

“Picked it up at a gas station on the way here,” he says sheepishly. It says _Welcome to Panem!_ in cheesy font on the front, over a panorama of the mountains threading through the state. I flip it over and read the back.

_I missed her and she was right there._

I look up at him. How he makes me love him more and more with everything he does, I don’t think I’ll ever know. He rubs the back of his neck. He always seems somewhat embarrassed or regretful of his displays of affection, like he’s unsure if it was the right or smart thing to do.

“You’re a sap,” I say, and he smiles. “Thank you.”

“I missed you,” he says.

“I know you did,” I reply. We smile at each other for a moment. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

I’m glad that the kids aren’t home yet, because Hazelle is a flurry of greetings the second Peeta and I step through the door. As soon as Peeta sets his bag down, she’s hugging him tightly, a motherly, comforting hug. I see how his eyes widen at her touch, but he soon sinks into it.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” he says. “Honestly, Mrs Hawthorne. It’s so kind of you.”

“Call me Hazelle, and of course. You’re clearly very important to our Katniss. That means you’re family, as far as I’m concerned.”

Peeta looks like he’s been bowled over. “Thank you,” he rasps.

“Go put your things in the spare room,” Hazelle says. “And then come back out. I have a lot of questions to ask you."

We do as she says. In the quiet of the guest room, I hug Peeta, running my hands over his back.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he replies. “I should’ve expected it. I knew she still lived in town.”

“Still. That sucks.”

Peeta smiles at my understatement. “Sorry about your mom and sister,” he says.

“That sucked too,” I echo, and he lays his hand on my cheek. I lean into the touch. We look at each other for a long minute. “You know we did it again, right?” I ask.

“Did what?”

“Made a brash decision to leave one place and go somewhere else.”

“I’m going to blame you for it,” Peeta says. “But I’m glad I did. It really, really sucked to be away from you.”

“More than dead parents suck?” I ask. He rolls his eyes. A spark of lightness amidst the dark.

“I don’t know how to rank those without sounding like a dick,” he replies. I kiss him on the cheek.

“Come on,” I say. “Hazelle wants your baking expertise.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon talking in the kitchen. Hazelle has a million questions for Peeta, about his hobbies and interests, about his favourite part of travelling, about what he, a third party, really thinks about her eldest son. The rain becomes snow at some point, and then Posy arrives from school with Vick, and then Rory appears a little while later. Peeta seems overwhelmed at first, and I can understand it. I only had Prim when I was growing up, so our house was much quieter than the Hawthorne’s. Rory, Vick, and Posy might be less rambunctious now, twenty-two, nineteen, and seventeen, respectfully, but they’re loud and not shy when it comes to strangers.

Peeta’s natural friendliness wins them all over. Over supper, he tells everyone about all the embarrassing things I’ve done on our travels, and they regal him with tales of me growing up alongside them in the Seam. It’s a cringy trip down memory lane and I love every moment of it.

“Oh, wait, you’re a Mellark, right?” says Rory halfway through dessert. I almost step in, as does Hazelle, to prevent any awkward explanations about Peeta’s family, but all Rory says is, “Gale would _never_ shut up about having to play against your brother.” He groans dramatically. “Constantly bitching about how the Merchantville Wolves kept winning.”

Peeta just laughs at the story. “My oldest brother Fen used to play against him all the time before he went to college. And Rye, my other brother, he would talk plenty about Gale and the Seamtown Lions too.”

“I can’t believe you’re dating a guy from Merchantville, Katniss,” Posy scowls, prying her eyes from her cell phone.

“What’s so wrong with people from Merchantville?” Peeta asks, as if he doesn’t know about the longstanding rivalry between the two towns, and that sets off a whole new round of debate about which town is better. Peeta eventually admits defeat. “I’m not going to argue when I’m the only Merchantville rep in the room,” he says, bowing his hands.

Hazelle manages to drag him into the kitchen to talk to him while she washes dishes, and I leave them to it after Peeta grins at me, under the (correct) impression that he’s won everyone over, especially Hazelle.

So I go and find Posy instead. She was always too young for us to really hang out that much, but I’ve always seen her as another little sister to me. I stand in the foyer and listen to the house around me. Vick and Rory shouting at videogames upstairs. Hazelle and Peeta talking in the kitchen. Then I hear Posy talking, and go into the living room to find her. What I find is her and Buttercup, Prim’s cat.

I come to a halt. I haven’t seen him while I’ve been here. I forgot that the Hawthornes had adopted him after Prim died and I left the country.

“He keeps sleeping outside,” Posy says when she spots me. “He likes being outside more than being inside with me.”

She wiggles a cat toy in his face, and he merely blinks at it. I crouch down in front of him. He’s just as ugly as he was when I last saw him. When I go to pet him, he hisses. I smile. Some things don’t change.

“Buttercup only ever came inside if Prim was there,” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

“I put a blanket in the old rabbit hutch at the bottom of the yard so he could at least have somewhere dry to go but I don’t think he even uses that.”

I laugh. “I’m sure he appreciates it.”

Posy rolls her eyes. “None of us are as good as Prim in his eyes.”

“He’s a snob,” I say. “Nothing we can do about it.”

We sit there for half an hour, just talking. We discuss her AP classes at school, how annoying Vick and Rory can be, and I fill her in on all the Gale and Madge-related gossip.

“He misses you a lot, you know,” I say, and she scoffs.

“He called me ugly when I Facetimed him last week.”

I grin. “He’s the one with that giant ugly beard on his face,” I point out, and she smirks.

“I told him he only grew it to hide his stupid face. I like Madge better than him.” She sighs. “How come Peeta is so nice and Gale is so irritating?”

“Peeta can be plenty irritating. And Gale’s your brother. That’s just the law of being siblings, I’m afraid.”

“Peeta’s so cool,” she enthuses. “And he’s cute. Do you think he’d film a tiktok with me?”

I laugh at the idea. “As long as you don’t want him to dance. He can’t dance.”

“You don’t need to know how to dance if you’re hot,” Posy deadpans. I laugh out loud.

“Don’t tell him that, please. He’s bad enough as he is.”

“You better marry him,” Posy says. I forgot how relentless she could be. High school has only made her more so. “You’re basically my sister and I need another in-law who can bully Gale. Madge’s so good at it already.”

Rather than feel panic at Posy’s suggestion, the same panic I felt when I realised I liked Peeta and didn’t know what the hell to do about it, I just feel hopeful. Excited. This day—this year—started at rock-bottom. But I don’t have to stay there. I won’t stay there.

“Peeta’s too nice to bully anyone,” I say, bumping Posy’s shoulder with mine.

“That’s a shame,” she sighs. “Gale deserves it.”

When I go back to the kitchen, leaving Posy and Buttercup to their philosophising, I find Hazelle alone.

“So?” I say. “What do you think?”

She fixes me with a look. “He’s utterly charming,” she says. “I can see why you love him so much.” My face must do something, because she hugs me close. “You do love him, don’t you?” she asks.

“Yeah, Hazelle. I do.”

She smiles at me. “This year has been hard, I know that. But seeing you like this… with someone so sweet. I couldn’t be more glad. I know your folks would be too.”

“I just wish they could meet him.”

“I know. I know you do.” She rubs a soothing circle on my back. “I’ll admit I was concerned when Gale told me who he was. I worried that two people who’d just experienced such loss would be bad for each other. But I can see now that I was wrong. The two of you are meant to be. I really think that.”

I bite my lip so I don’t cry. Hearing Hazelle say this means so much. I would hope in another world that my mom would have said the same thing. But I suppose if she and Prim were still alive, I never would have gone to Italy, and never met Peeta.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“It’s rare to find someone like that,” she says. “Your parents managed it, and I suspect you and Peeta are the same. That boy loves you, Katniss. I can see it in his eyes.”

I blew out a breath. “You’re gonna make me cry,” I say. “I really don’t want to cry again today, Hazelle.”

She shakes her head. Squeezes my arm. “I’m just telling you the truth,” she says, and then she looks past me to the doorway. I turn and find Peeta there.

“I’m beat,” he says. “I think I need to get some sleep.”

“It’s been a busy day for all of us,” Hazelle says. “And you have a big day tomorrow, too. Go on up. Can I get you any more pillows or blankets or anything? This house can get awfully cold.”

“We’ll be alright,” I say. “Thanks, Hazelle.”

“Well, goodnight,” she says. “The kids will probably be gone by the time you leave, but I’ll be here.”

“Goodnight,” Peeta says, kissing her on the cheek. As soon as he’s turned to head for the stairs, she looks at me meaningfully.

“How you managed to find that man in the middle of Italy, I’ll never know,” she says, grinning at me. “Now go, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I head upstairs and find Peeta in the guest room, already changed into his pyjamas. I do the same, brushing my teeth and braiding back my hair. It’s quiet here, the snow casting a muffled silence over the house. I peer through the window to see a frozen, dreary world outside. I pull the curtains back across and crawl into bed. It’s a tighter fit than I’m used to, since we’ve mostly had doubles across our travels, but I’m not about to complain about being squashed in beside Peeta.

“Hazelle is… the nicest person I’ve ever met,” he says. “How is Gale her son?”

I grin into the gloom. “He’s adopted,” I say. Peeta hums.

“Does he know?”

I laugh, putting my arm around Peeta’s waist. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say softly. “I’m really glad I’m here with you, Peeta.”

“Me too. I didn’t—I didn’t like sleeping alone. It didn’t feel right.”

A few moments of quiet. I trace aimless patterns over his chest, listening to him breathing. “Do you remember that night in Rome? You were out on the balcony.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep. Rye had been texting me.”

“About your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d had a dream about my dad,” I say. “Or about my parents. I’m not sure. I went and saw you standing out there all by yourself and I didn’t want to sleep alone. I didn’t want you to have to sleep on the couch. And I slept so well when you were there.” I close my eyes, press my face into his side. “You make me feel safe, Peeta.”

He shifts. I can feel him looking down at me in the dark.

“You make me feel brave, Katniss,” he says after a minute. “I wouldn’t have said yes to coming here for the wedding if you didn’t make me feel like I could do it.”

I push myself onto my elbow. I don’t know if I want to cry or to kiss him but tears spill out before I can do the latter.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” I whisper. “I’m not. I just—” I cut myself off, struggling to figure out what I want to say. Instead, I just speak my mind. “I can never find the right words to describe how you make me feel, Peeta,” I say, cupping his face. “I thought I’d never find someone like you. I definitely didn’t think I deserved it. But here we are.”

“Despite it all,” he echoes. He wipes an errant tear from my cheek and then laughs, almost to himself. “I’m so glad I talked to you in Sant’Oreste. I know I’ve said that before but…” He shakes his head. “In Caprarola—I don’t know if you remember—you asked if we were friends. You were a little drunk and we’d literally only met that day but I said yes. I said we were friends. But I think I knew. Deep down. I knew who I’d found.”

“And who was that?” I ask. I wonder if he can hear how fast my heart is beating.

“The one person I love with every fibre of my being. The person I knew I’d never want to let go.”

“Peeta,” I say. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because with you it felt different.” He takes my hand, puts it over his heart. It’s beating just as fast as mine. “I knew. I knew from the start.”

“Was it because I made you share a bed with me?” I ask. He laughs gently, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

“You snored into my ear for half the night,” he says. “That really convinced me.”

“Good,” I say, kissing him slowly. When we pull apart, his hand has drifted to my ass. “I’m not having sex with you in Gale’s old bed,” I say lowly. “Not even if you declare your love for me again.”

“I love you,” Peeta says. And then again. And again.

“I should’ve made you sleep on the floor,” I say, my hand now over his mouth to shut him up. “Now go to sleep.”

The next morning I wake feeling well-rested. Given that the past few days have been filled with international travel and emotional trauma, I’m more than glad for the rest. I go downstairs and grab some coffee, and manage to catch Posy just before she leaves for school, hugging her so tightly her head almost pops off her shoulders. When I go back upstairs, Peeta seems oddly calm as he shaves in the bathroom.

“I thought you’d be more nervous,” I say, leaning against the cabinet and watching him.

“Me too,” he says, angling his jaw for the blade. I set my coffee down and take the blade from him, sitting on the counter by the sink and pulling his skin taunt. He steps in between my legs, hands resting on my thighs.

“Your mom isn’t coming to the wedding, is she?” I ask as I run the blade under the tap.

“No chance in hell is she coming,” Peeta says. “Rye hasn’t even told her.”

“I think it’s gonna be a good day,” I murmur, tilting his chin to catch the hair there. “The snow will make for nice photos.”

“I think it’s going to be a good day too.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I say. “I didn’t want yesterday to ruin things for you. I know things between you and Rye aren’t perfect but you both deserve to see each other and be happy.”

I pat Peeta’s face dry and apply some aftershave to sooth his skin.

“Rye asked about you, you know,” he says, eyes fixed on mine, hands tightening on my thighs just enough to make something spark low in my stomach. We don’t have enough time to do anything, and I’m not going to do anything of the sort in Hazelle’s house.

“What did you say?” I ask, determined to keep the conversation going instead.

“Only good things.”

“I’m grateful that he’s happy for me to come to his wedding.”

“Well, I think he knows I’m pretty serious about you.” He grimaces slightly. “I should tell you that I didn’t tell him about you until I arrived the other day.”

My mouth falls open. “Are you serious? Why not?”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. It felt wrong to say ‘oh, by the way, I’m dating this girl I met in Italy’ after he’d just told me he was getting married.”

I shake my head. “You’re impossible,” I say. “What if he didn’t want me to come to the wedding?”

“I’d leave you in the car. Roll down the window and bring you food on a plate.”

I shove his chest. “How dare you?” I say, and he laughs.

“Rye wouldn’t have said no,” he says. “He said he wanted to meet you.”

I narrow my eyes. “He’ll have to come out to the car, then,” I say dryly, and Peeta laughs again, louder, a low, rumbling sound. I lean and kiss him, and then jump off the counter. “Go and get dressed,” I say, poking him in the chest. “I need to get ready.”

I slap on some makeup, braid my hair back over my head, and get dressed while Peeta gets ready in the bedroom. Talking with him this morning and last night has been just what I needed. The stress and upset of the last few days have already put me through the ringer. Of course it was Peeta I needed to make me feel good again.

“You think this is alright?” I ask, looking down at the dress I’m wearing. It’s mid-length, long-sleeved, and a deep maroon colour, and should be warm enough even in this weather.

Peeta stands by the dresser, adjusting his cufflinks. He’s in the suit he bought in Ferrara for that pivotal date, and he looks just as handsome as he did then. His eyes brighten at the sight of me, the brightest they’ve been all morning.

“You look gorgeous,” he says.

I smooth my hands over the material, nervous. I just want to make a good impression. I have a feeling today is going to be difficult in some ways and easy in others and the last thing I want is to exacerbate things.

“You’re so biased,” I say.

“And? Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

I roll my eyes and look at him. His blue suit makes his eyes pop, and without a tie and with the top three buttons undone, he looks casual but still smart. So good-looking that it’s distracting.

“You look nice,” I say, and he walks towards me. I catch his wrist, do up the cufflink for him, and them smooth my hands down his chest. “You look handsome.”

“Gotta keep your attention somehow,” he says, kissing me. “I know you’ve got mine.”

Downstairs, it’s only through serious willpower that I stop myself crying and ruining my makeup. Hazelle hugs us both, bestows us with the rest of the cookies, and then hugs us again.

“Let me get a photo of you,” she says, and we do as she asks, standing together by the wall as she snaps away. I get a strong sense of déjà vu, remembering the woman who took our photo in Rome.

Peeta thanks Hazelle repeatedly, for her hospitality and kindness. “Of course,” she says, patting his chest. “You ever find yourself in Panem and in need of a place to stay, you’ll always be welcome here, alright? I mean that, young man.”

“Yes ma’am,” Peeta says.

He walks out to the car with our bags, leaving me and Hazelle to stand on the porch. She gives me a look.

“What?” I ask.

“I think you know,” she replies. She hugs me tightly. I don’t want to let go.

“Thank you, Hazelle,” I say. “I wouldn’t have managed without you.”

“You’re stronger than you look, sweetheart,” she says. “You’ve weathered this storm before. It’s about time you got some sunshine.”

We both look at Peeta. He’s waiting by the car, and smiles brightly our way.

“Call me when you get to the venue, and when you decide where you’re going next.”

“I promise,” I say.

“Not that I don’t mind you dropping in without warning, but I like to know where you are and what you’re getting up to. I’ve given Peeta my number and told him he needs to update me too.”

I laugh. “You’re too nice, Hazelle.”

She smiles at me. “I think you both deserve it.”

We hug one last time.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for longer,” I tell her.

“It’s alright. Just make sure you come and visit. Don’t forget there are people here who love you.” I nod. Maybe I will cry. She procures a tissue. “No tears,” she says. “It’s been so good to see you, Katniss, dear.”

“You too, Hazelle,” I say, and then I’m walking to the car and getting in with Peeta.

We wave as we drive off. I spot Buttercup coming to stand on the steps with Hazelle, a splotch of yellow in the rear-view mirror. The Seam isn’t so empty after all.

The drive to the courthouse in Capitol, the aptly-named capital city of Panem, is one that takes us through snow-covered forests and hills.

“Maybe Panem isn’t as ugly as I thought,” Peeta murmurs. A little later, I turn the car off the highway and towards the city centre, driving through grey piles of slush piled up against the sidewalks. People huddle in coats and hats, hurrying from one place to another, eager to get out of the cold. Peeta pulls a face at it all. “I do miss the sun, though,” he says.

I park the car in a lot a few blocks from the courthouse and we get out and begin to walk. It’s cold and the sky is flat and white as we navigate the icy streets, arm-in-arm for warmth and stability.

“You nervous?” I ask Peeta. I know I definitely am. Being back here is nerve-wracking enough, but to meet Peeta’s brother and on his wedding day no less makes it even worse.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know it’s not gonna be a big event wedding or anything, only a few of us, but it’s…” He trails off. “I’m happy for him, I really am. It’s just a lot to process all at once.”

“I’ll be there the entire time,” I reassure him. “It’ll be fun. And the minute you wanna leave, we’ll leave. We have a hotel room with our name on it. It’ll be just like before.”

The courthouse looms up, grey and imposing but lit with buttery yellow lights, and is warmer than I expect it to be when we step inside. We’re directed to the licensing floor and find a dozen or so people milling around in one of the hallways, dressed up similarly to us, I’m relieved to find, a perfect mix of smart and casual. Most of them are around our age or a bit older, plus four middle-aged folks.

“The woman in green—that’s my Aunt Sandy,” Peeta murmurs. “My dad’s sister. She lives in Canada.” He scans the crowd, nerves rolling off him in waves now that we’re actually in the building. I take his hand and squeeze it, and that seems to calm him somewhat. “And that’s Rye,” he adds, and I follow his gaze to a man with ashy blond hair stood just off to the side, looking intently at a piece of paper, mouthing words. Vows, I assume.

We get closer, and Aunt Sandy notices us first.

“Peeta!” she exclaims. “As I live and breathe!”

She’s enveloping him in a hug before either of us can say anything, gushing about how long it’s been since she saw him, how glad she is that he’s here.

“Me too, Sandy,” Peeta says, adjusting his crumpled suit.

“And who is this lovely young lady?” she says, eyes locking onto me. I can see some vague resemblance in her face to Peeta’s, but she’s got greying brown hair and piercing green eyes unlike Peeta’s golden blond and blue. She takes my hands and squeezes them.

“This is Katniss,” Peeta introduces.

Aunt Sandy beams at me. “It’s good to meet you,” she says, the genuine warmth in her expression reminding me of Hazelle. Then she turns her attention back to Peeta, bombarding him with questions about his travels. “It’s good of you to come back for Rye,” she says, peering down the hallway at the man in question. “I think we all expected you wouldn’t, but I told him to invite you anyway. I’m glad I was right.”

“Thanks, Aunt Sandy,” Peeta says. She squeezes his cheek like he’s eight years old.

“It’s nice to see you, kiddo,” she says. “You ought to come up to Canada and stay with me. Both of you,” she adds, looking at me. “There’s plenty of room and I know you’ve got the travel bug.”

I almost laugh, because it wasn’t exactly a desire to travel that drove Peeta or myself out of the country. But Peeta just smiles at her. “I haven’t been to Canada before,” he says. “And I don’t think Katniss has either.” I shake my head in confirmation. “We’ll have to drop by,” he promises.

As soon as she steps away, he raises his eyebrows. “She lives on a forty-acre sled-dog farm,” he tells me, and I can’t help but laugh, covering my mouth.

“That sounds fun?” I offer, and he groans.

“We’d be picking up dog poop one minute, and freezing our asses off on a sled the next minute. Hardly relaxing.”

“I’m going to tell her that we’re definitely coming,” I laugh. “I want to see you on a sled moving at high speed.”

We stand back talking among ourselves, Peeta pointing out the people he knows from the small group, mostly the nearly-weds’ friends, and after a few minutes, Rye drags himself out of his vow-related stupor and spots us. I see his face do something complicated, just like Peeta’s does. I glance at Peeta, and see the same expression mirrored. Regret, grief, apprehension, and beneath it all a staid brotherly love. A relief.

“Peet,” he says, stuffing his papers into his pocket and walking over. “I was kind of worrying you wouldn’t make it.”

“No, no,” Peeta says, making me wonder how things were left yesterday, when Peeta saw his mom and decided to drive down to the Seam instead of staying another night in Merchantville. “I wouldn’t miss my brother’s wedding. Congratulations, Rye.”

Rye takes a deep breath and smiles. I can see the resemblance between the two men in the shape of their jaw and the blue of their eyes but Peeta is broad where Rye is slimmer, and Rye has a wild look in his eyes where Peeta is just sunshine and light.

“You look good, little brother,” he says, telegraphing his movements, I notice, before squeezing Peeta’s upper arms briefly and then stepping back again. “Where’d you get the monkey suit?”

“Picked it up in Italy, actually,” Peeta explains, smoothing his hand over his lapels. “Only the best for you.”

“Evidently,” Rye says, holding out his arms. “I picked this shit out on clearance.”

“Not that anyone can tell.”

“Ah, well, too late for that. It’s the first thing outta my fucking mouth today.” He taps the side of his head. “ADH-fucking-D is having a great fucking time.”

“It’s the nerves, huh?” Peeta asks. “How’re you feeling? You look stressed.”

“I am stressed,” Rye blanches. “Fuck. I am so fucking stressed right now.”

Peeta laughs. Rye laughs. I smile. Ah, so that’s the closest thing they have in common, then, the tilt of their bodies when they laugh, and the rich sound of it.

Rye blinks at me like he’s just seen me, and then at his brother and then back at me.

“Oh, hello,” he says. “Peet, is this the plus one you were tellin’ me about?”

Peeta clears his throat. I put my hand on his back. “This is Katniss,” he says. “We met in Italy. We’re…” he glances down at me and I smile encouragingly. “This is my girlfriend, Katniss,” Peeta says. “Katniss, this is Rye.”

“Italy, hey?” Rye says, sticking out his hand. “Well, _ciao, bella_ , it’s so good to meet you. How’re you liking Panem?”

“I grew up here,” I tell him, and see his surprise at my familiar accent. “It’s good to meet you too, Rye. Congratulations!”

His eyes bug out. “Don’t congratulate me yet. Taylor might decide I’m not worth it. I don’t know. I told ‘em I wasn’t gonna get cold feet.”

“You’ll be fine,” Peeta says. “Taylor wouldn’t walk out on you.”

Rye pulls a face. “I should go over my vows,” he says. “I’m gonna forget them otherwise.”

He bids us a hasty farewell and marches down the corridor, pulling out the papers he was holding earlier on. I grin, liking his energy, and look at Peeta.

“That’s Rye?” I ask, amused.

“Yeah. That’s Rye,” Peeta says. “I forgot how scattered he can be.”

“Oh, because you’re always so level-headed,” I deadpan, and when he looks at me, faux wounded, I elbow him. “I’m kidding,” I say. “You’re actually super calm like, all the time. It drives me insane.”

“You’re just stubborn,” he retorts, and I fix him with a look.

“Are we going to argue about whose the most stubborn right now?” I ask jokingly, and he rolls his eyes, pulling me closer. I kiss him and feel his mouth pull into a smile.

Ten minutes later, a registrar calls everyone into the office at the end of the corridor, and we all file dutifully into a room that really isn’t big enough for a dozen people. I introduce myself to the guests I end up squished in next to, a young woman with bright orange hair and a lip piercing who apparently met Rye in college, and an older man with a missing arm who laughs at me when I get flustered over shaking his hand.

And then the doors open again, and Taylor steps through, and everyone goes quiet and starts smiling hugely as the happy couple is reunited. The love in Rye’s face is blindingly clear, and I hug Peeta’s arm to me. It feels good to be here, in this room with a bunch of people I don’t know in a state I dreaded returning to, and yet celebrating something good.

Vows are exchanged, documents are signed, and then the newlyweds kiss and everyone cheers and applauds. I look up at Peeta and see him roughly wiping at his eyes.

We all file out so Taylor and Rye can sign whatever extra documents are required, and then they step out, all smiles, and we head out to the steps outside the courthouse for some quick photos.

I sense Peeta hanging back, and when Taylor calls him over, demanding he be part of the family photo, which consists of Rye, Taylor, Peeta, and Taylor’s mom, I have to push him in encouragement. But he stands there beside his brother and smiles hugely and then Rye beckons me over too.

“Come on,” he says. “You came all this way. You have to be in a photo with us.”

So I join them and Peeta’s arm goes around my waist and we smile and smile until my cheeks ache and my feet are frozen solid. Rye orders everyone to march on to the reception venue, which is a private room at a nearby restaurant, and we skid and slide through the ice and falling snow.

“This is such a Rye and Taylor wedding,” Peeta says. “You wouldn’t catch them dead in a fancy car or a horse and carriage.”

I look further down the street where Rye and Taylor are half-running, half skipping down the sidewalk, drawing looks from everyone they pass.

“I kind of got that vibe,” I say, laughing, and Peeta laughs too.

In the restaurant, the table set up is one long table in the centre of the room, balloon arches over the doors, a disco ball, and a private bar. The wedding cake, a three-tiered white monstrosity that’s surprisingly conservative given what we’ve had so far, lurks in the corner. We claim our seats, applaud the newlyweds when they come in a moment later, and then the food is ordered, the drinks start flowing and the music begins. Conversation flows easily between all of us, and I don’t feel left out or excluded, and I don’t think Peeta does either. Everyone in the wedding party seems to be nearly excessively friendly as we eat and drink and celebrate.

Soon enough there are speeches and toasts being made, cake being cut, and the first dance is held. Rye and Taylor dance to some classical tune before the track abruptly changes to Jamiroquai’s _Automaton_ and they begin dancing like maniacs. Everyone gets up and dances too, and I have the thrill of revisiting Peeta’s tipsy efforts from Rome, recreated all the way back here in Panem. When a slower song comes on—that being the Scorpion’s _Still Loving You_ —we slowly sway under the disco ball and Peeta mouths the words and pretends like he knows how to play the guitar.

“You’re so embarrassing,” I say, laughing at him. “You don’t know how ridiculous you look.”

“It’s all for you, babe,” he says. “You won’t get this from anyone else.”

We keep swaying. He frowns up at the disco ball. “Didn’t we see one of these in Austria?”

“The art exhibit,” I say. “See, everything’s connected.”

I manage to drag him to the photo booth at some point, and we squish into the little space and take some couple photos that I’ll admit are pretty damn cute. Peeta kissing me on the cheek. Me kissing him properly. Back-to-back with finger guns. And then Peeta sliding off the tiny metal seat and me trying to grab him.

“That’s my favourite,” I say, laughing as I point at where he’s falling out of frame. “Oh my god, Peeta.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep laughing at me,” he says, backing me against the wall and kissing me. We’re on the right side of drunk that we’re not about to do something indecent in front of all these nice people, but I definitely let the kiss go on longer than I otherwise would in public. When I push Peeta away, his eyes are huge and dark, and I’m sure I look just the same.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and I cup his face in my hands.

“So are you,” I tell him, and he kisses me again.

At some point I go and sit down to rest my feet and so I can rehydrate with a glass of water. I text Jo and Gale and Madge and let Hazelle know we’re all good, and then Taylor sits down next to me and we begin talking. I explain exactly how Peeta and I met, what it’s been like to travel with him, and Taylor explains meeting Rye at a club.

“I thought he was some frat bro, I’ll be real. He had this backwards baseball cap on and everything. But he’s actually super sweet.”

“I think that’s just what they’re like,” I say, and Taylor nods in agreement. “Peeta’s sweet too.”

“He doubt himself like Rye?” Taylor asks, not missing a beat, and apparently not as drunk as I thought.

“Yeah,” I say, sobering slightly. “He’s working on it.”

“At risk of making it seem like you have a responsibility to take care of him, I’m glad he has you,” Taylor says, leaning into me. “I’m really happy you and Peeta came. I was worried you wouldn’t. Rye would’ve been heartbroken.”

We watch the two brothers stood by the balloon arch, clearly in deep conversation, and my heart twinges when they hug each other tightly.

“Peeta pretty much dropped everything when he got the invite,” I say. “He was so nervous about it but I knew he wanted to come. He’s really happy for you and Rye, Taylor, honestly.”

“And we’re happy for you,” Taylor beams. “No pressure or anything, but I’m expecting an invite when you two get hitched. Even if it’s some fancy international wedding.”

“You’re first on the list,” I say, and I mean it. I also, for second time on this trip, don’t feel freaked out when another person has talked about Peeta and I’s relationship in conjunction with the topic of marriage, in relation to something long-term and life-time. It just feels good.

“Oh, and if you ever need a place to stay in Philly, you’re more than welcome,” Taylor says. “Take my number. You can always just call, even if you just wanna talk. And Philly’s better than Canada, trust me.”

I grimace. “You’ve been dog sledding?”

Taylor grimaces back. “It sounds fun, but I can promise that living with sixty dogs isn’t as fun as it sounds, and I _like_ dogs.”

The evening wears on, and soon enough, Rye and Taylor are leaving, and then the caterers start cleaning up, and the wedding party slowly drifts away, everyone with portions of wedding cake in their hands and with huge smiles on their faces. Peeta and I pull on our coats and step out into the bitter cold.

“You good?” I ask, and Peeta nods.

“That was fun,” he says. “Did you have fun? I saw you talking to Taylor.”

“I had a great time,” I assure him. “And Taylor is so nice. Told us not to go and stay with Aunt Sandy and the dogs.”

Peeta chuckles. “Yeah, I wasn’t planning on it.”

Walking through Capitol in the gently falling snow, tipsy and happy, reminds me of the countless time Peeta and I have walked through a town or city under the moonlight, a little drunk, talking about whatever comes to mind. It makes me realise that I could do this anywhere with him and feel just as good.

We arrive at our hotel and check in, and I kick off my heels with a sigh of relief, followed by prying myself out of my dress and into a sports bra and some sweatpants. Peeta jumps into the shower, so I lay back on the glorious king-sized bed and think about how well this day has gone. No tears, at least not the sad kind, and plenty of friendly people. Unions and reunions in all directions. Peeta and I were right to be nervous, especially Peeta, but I’m glad that it’s gone so well. It’s another reassurance that just because I’m in Panem doesn’t mean everything has to remind me of my mom and Prim, and that even if it does, the grief doesn’t have to crush me. I can keep living despite it. I don’t have to feel guilty for doing so.

I scroll through my photos from the evening, and then fish the photo booth printout from my purse and stare at it. I trace Peeta’s face with my finger and smile. God, I love him. And God, he’s cute.

Low and behold, the man himself reappears from the shower, clad in a sleeveless shirt that makes his arms and shoulders look insane and some sweatpants. I roll onto my stomach and look at him. He squints back at me.

“I’m gonna teach you how to wrestle,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Right now?” I ask. “Do you see a wrestling mat anywhere?”

He stretches his arms out, rolls his shoulders. “There’s plenty of space.”

“You’re drunk, Peeta.”

“Am not,” he says, and then walks in an admittedly very straight line, heel to toe, and I sigh. “Hey, no sighing!” he says, seeming pretty energetic for someone who just danced his heart out for half of the day. I give him a look. “And no looking at me like I have nothing to teach you!” he exclaims. I push myself upright.

“Is this really the time for wrestling lessons?” I ask.

“This is the perfect time, babe,” he says, and I laugh. “It’s great for fitness, great for self-defence, and importantly—” He points at me, eyebrows lifting, “It’s fun.”

“Because that’s the trifecta I look for in any activity,” I deadpan, and he steps forward and pulls me up by my hands.

“Why are you always so sarcastic?” he asks. I gape at him.

“Where’s this sudden energy coming from?” I counter. “And this attitude?”

“I’m psyching you up,” he says, dropping into a fighting stance.

“What, no singlet?” I ask, and he ignores me completely, beginning to jog on the spot.

“These are the rules,” he begins.

“What are the people next door gonna think?” I break in.

“These are the rules,” he repeats, eyes sparkling with what I can only describe as mischief. “No choking me out, not knees or elbows to the balls,” he counts on his hand. “Try and get a hit.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“As a heart attack.”

He beckons me, grinning like this is super amusing to him, so I go for it, try and get a hit, and he manages to bat me off each time with ease. I try again, and trip back onto the bed. He follows, kneeling between my legs.

“Put your foot here,” he instructs, pressing my heel into his hip. “And tuck the other one here.” He wraps my other leg around the back of his thigh. “And then pull my arm here.” He directs my hands to his shoulder and wrist. “And then twist to the left and pull me down.”

He gives me a look of encouragement so I grit my teeth in determination and do as he says, using his weight against him to pull him down onto the mattress in a move at flips me on top of him. He laughs. “That was really good. Perfect, actually.”

I look down at him, leaning my knee against his stomach. “Oof,” he says, tapping out with a hand on my thigh. “Alright, alright, you got me.”

I shift away and he grabs me so quickly I can’t help but squeal. He twists us back over, some effortless move that leaves him on top of me.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I say, unable to move under his weight but not willing to tap out. “I thought this was meant to be fun.”

He grins at me. “You’re not having a good time?” he asks, pressing his hips against mine. My entire body zings at the feeling, and I tilt my head.

“Is this a seduction technique?” I ask. The room suddenly seems to melt away, and it’s just me watching his eyes go dark. I think I’ve been turned on since the moment he stepped out looking the way he does, probably earlier, actually, since I saw him that suit and remembered Ferrara. But now, with this display of confidence and competence, it’s almost too much.

“So what if it is?” he asks lowly. He leans down to kiss me, slow, deep, and as soon as he pulls back, I shove him over until I’m the one kneeling over him. I raise an eyebrow expectantly.

“That’s not a wrestling move,” he says. I jump off the bed and peel off my sweatpants. He sits up on his elbows to watch me.

“Is this allowed?” I ask, biting my lip. He rubs his hand over his mouth, murmurs _fuck_ under his breath.

“You’d definitely be disqualified,” he says. I remove my bra, adding it to the pile of clothes on the ground. His eyes burn into me. I kick my underwear aside. “But you have potential,” he says, sitting up and grabbing me. We fall back on the bed and he rolls us over again, settling above me and kissing me, hard, deep, wet, like he’s already fucking me.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I say against his mouth, and he stands up again, yanking his shirt over his head. I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him. He’s like a marble sculpture, broad shoulders, sculpted chest, stocky and strong. He’s shown me one video from his college wrestling days, before he had to drop out, and he wasn’t as muscular as he is now but still managed to pin opponent after opponent.

“You like what you see?” he asks me, flattening his palm over his stomach. I tilt my head.

“Really want to see that singlet,” I say, and he shakes his head, pulling his shorts down and kicking them away.

“I don’t think it’d fit me anymore,” he says. He claps his hands together like a coach summoning a team, and then grabs my ankle and tugs me towards him.

“Too bad,” I say, and then he’s kissing me again, body pressing over mine, and I stop thinking about the singlet for the rest of the night.

In the morning, I wake before Peeta and head outside to call Johanna.

“Are you going to come and see me?” she asks. “I’m only a few hours away. I have a sofa bed. Don’t leave me hanging, brainless.”

“I’m gonna ask Peeta when he wakes up,” I say. “But I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

He does say yes. We pack our bags, a practised dance by this point, and grab breakfast a drive thru. I drive, and Peeta hands me bites of croissant and sips of coffee, and we cross out of Panem state lines to the sound of Dean Martin on the radio.

After two hours, we stop for gas.

“Does Jo drink?” Peeta asks, staring at the liquor on the shelves behind the cashier’s head.

“Whisky,” I reply, jugging my purse and some cans of soda.

“We should get her something.”

I scoff. “You can get her something. I’m not getting anything for her. She’s a nightmare.”

Peeta nods determinedly. “I’m getting her some. It’s not polite to show up emptyhanded. You think she’ll mind that it’s from a gas station?”

“Jo would do her entire grocery shop at the gas station if she could,” I reply. “I think she’d respect you more for buying it here.”

Peeta picks up a bottle, and when we get back to the car, we swap seats. I wedge the whisky in the footwell, between my rucksack and my feet, and crack open the soda. Yesterday was a long day, even though it was joyful, and I need the sugar to keep my energy levels up.

“You spoken to Rye today?” I ask as we take the turning that takes us to the town nearest to Jo’s place.

“I sent him a congratulations text,” Peeta replies. “I doubt I’ll get a reply today. I did get a text from Hazelle though. She wants me to send over any recipes I have for cake.”

“But she has a famous chocolate cake already, and that really can’t be improved.”

“She wants everything I have aside from chocolate,” Peeta says. He grins, eyes shining with excitement, and I can’t help but smile at him. Of course Hazelle would adopt him straight away, of course. I just didn’t think he’d be quite so willing.

“Is it weird that I’m not nervous to meet Johanna anymore?” he asks a little while later, when I direct him to take what looks like a logging track into the forest. He peers through the glass. “Though I don’t know how I feel about driving this far off the beaten track.”

“You ought to be nervous,” I tell him. “I should warn you that she’s brutally honest with everyone about everything. But she’s also an axe-throwing champion, and will defend your honour.”

Peeta’s eyes widen. “Why are all your friends like this?” he asks. “Why can’t they live in normal places? And not wield sharp weapons?!”

We pull up in front of Jo’s place. She lives in an old cabin that is frankly gorgeous, surrounded by pine trees dripping with moss, the porch and steps covered in potted plants, wind chimes hanging from the roof.

“You should be glad that she has axes,” I murmur. “There are definitely bears in these woods.”

We grab our things and walk up the house. Jo throws open the door before we’re even on the steps, and she grins at the sight of me.

“Long time, Everdeen,” she drawls. I don’t expect a hug, and she doesn’t offer one, instead giving me a firm punch on the shoulder. “You look like you’ve had a good night.”

I scowl at her, because she can’t actually see the hickey on my neck, and she laughs and quickly turns her attention to Peeta. He sticks out his hand and she takes it.

“Finally meeting the boyfriend,” she says. “I’m Johanna.”

Peeta introduces himself. “It’s good to meet you, Johanna. I got you this.”

He offers her the whisky and she takes the bottle by the neck, reading the label.

“It’ll do,” she says, which is the closest she gets to a genuine _thank you_. She narrows her eyes at Peeta, clearly and obviously giving him a once-over. “And I think you will do as well.”

“Jo,” I say, because my friend is as much a flirt as she is a bitch. Peeta smiles uncertainly. Jo runs her hand through her spiky hair, which is dyed pink at the ends. Last time I saw her it was green.

“What, brainless?” she fires back, before ignoring me and beckoning Peeta up the steps and into her house. “Welcome, Peeta,” she says. “Please, come in, make yourself comfortable. I’ve waiting to meet you. Katniss hasn’t been massively open with all the details about you but I’ve seen plenty of photos over the past few months. Honestly felt like I was on vacation too.” She pauses, winks at him. “It’s nice to see that you’re not ugly in real life. That would have been a shame.”

Peeta laughs in disbelief. “Glad I don’t disappoint.”

Inside, Jo’s cat Craig runs up straight away and says hello. Peeta is of course enamoured, and I can’t help but like the thing too, because he doesn’t hiss at me like Buttercup always does. Jo makes some hot drinks for us and we talk briefly about the journey here, about the wedding, about Panem, and then conversation becomes distinctly angled towards discussion of Peeta and I’s travels, and where we’d headed next.

“I don’t know,” Peeta says, looking across at me. I put my hand on his thigh. “I’d go anywhere with Katniss.”

I lean closer to him. “I don’t know either. I guess I thought we’d go back to Germany. Or maybe straight to Norway. But I’m not sure now.”

“Any suggestions, Johanna?” Peeta asks.

“How about you take me with you and go to the Bahamas,” she suggests. “I promise I’d be a good travel companion. You wouldn’t even have to see me once we landed.”

“Who would look after Craig?” Peeta asks, petting the cat in question, who rolls around on the table top, wrapping Peeta around his little paw.

“Craig can survive by himself,” Jo says. “Which I can also do, smuggled across international borders in a suitcase. What do you think?”

Peeta laughs. “I think you’d get on famously with my buddy Finnick,” he says, and I blanch at the idea, making him laugh more. He shows Jo a few pictures of Finnick, and Jo snatches his phone from him and zooms in.

“No offense, but you chose Peeta over _this_?” she asks me.

“It’s a question I ask myself every day,” Peeta says.

“Finnick is happily married!” I point out.

“I’d tell you to go for it if he wasn’t,” Peeta offers. Jo snorts.

“You go for this Italian god, brainless, and I’ll go after his wife.”

“What about me?” Peeta asks.

“You can just stand around looking pretty. You’re like a palette cleanser after seeing Mr Adonis on the regular. You’re a bit of neutral ground.”

“This is how Jo compliments people,” I murmur to Peeta, who nods like he’s not quite sure he believes me. I push his hair off his forehead. “Don’t worry, I think you’re better looking that Finn.”

Peeta grins. “Well now I know you’re lying.”

We stay with Jo for three nights, in the end. Her sofa bed is surprisingly comfortable and she’s got no responsibilities on her end, aside from Craig, free until January from work and having no family to visit. The day we arrive, it rains into the night, so we stay holed up inside. Peeta cooks, much to Jo’s delight, and then we play card games for a few hours, and Jo grills Peeta.

“So you came back for your brother’s wedding?” she asks him, and he nods. “You meet the parents, brainless?”

Peeta doesn’t even flinch. “She’d have a pretty hard time doing it. My dad died last year and I haven’t spoken to my mom in years.”

Jo doesn’t flinch either, pursing her lips as she considers. “Well we’re a motley bunch, aren’t we? Two true orphans and an orphan for all intents and purposes.”

“Your parents are dead too?” Peeta asks. Jo waggles her eyebrows.

“Long time. This kind of shit is old hat by now. How’re _you_ handling it? I know the first year is the worst.”

“It’s been… better than I thought it would be,” Peeta says, looking across at me. “I left Panem to get some space. I don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t met Katniss.”

Jo sneers. “That’s too lovey-dovey for me,” she says. “I get the impression you’re a real romantic,” she tacks on, pointing at Peeta. “Brainless, on the other hand…” She whistles. “I’m sure you’ve already seen her baggage.”

Peeta laughs the way people do when they’re not sure if they’re laughing too soon at a dark joke. “I, uh, yeah,” he says. He crooks an eyebrow. “She’s seen all mine too.”

Jo slaps her hand on her thigh and laughs. “I like you,” she says. She finally looks over at me, as if remembering I’m even there. “I approve,” she says.

Peeta puts his hand on his chest. I give her my patented scowl. “I’m so relieved,” I deadpan, and she pours some more whisky.

The next day, I wake to Jo and Peeta conspiring among themselves in the kitchen. I walk in already suspicious, and Jo lifts her coffee at me.

“Your boy is smart,” she says. She points the spatula in her other hand. “And he’s got a dark thread in ‘im that I like. I don’t trust anyone without a dark side.”

Peeta takes it all in his stride. “Didn’t you think I was a serial killer?” he asks.

“I was concerned about Katniss shacking up with some rando,” Jo clarifies. “I didn’t think you were a _serial killer_. I did suspect you were the leader of a cult or something. One of those ‘health gurus’. I’ve listened to the podcasts. I know how easy it is for people to get pulled into that shit.”

“No cults or murdering here,” Peeta says, flipping golden-brown pancakes in a pan. “Just pancakes.”

Jo looks at me, making an _aww, isn’t he cute?_ expression. I scowl at her.

“Stop harassing him,” I say as I shove past her to get coffee of my own.

“It’s not harassment,” she shoots back. “He likes it. Don’t you, Peeta?”

“Yes ma’am,” Peeta replies, balancing three plates of perfect pancakes on his arms and taking them over to the dining table in the corner. Jo looks at me.

“Come _on_ ,” she drawls. “He’s a dreamboat.”

We spend that day outside for the most part, climbing into Jo’s aggressive four-wheeler and driving out to a nearby hiking trail.

“You can’t complain because you’re a guest,” I tell Peeta, deeply pleased that I have finally managed to get him to go on a hike that will force him to go uphill.

“I’m going to complain to you,” he says stubbornly, zipping up his coat.

The hike is hardly strenuous, though, more a leisurely walk through the gorgeous woodland gracing the mountainside. I’m happy to catch up with Jo – she told me as soon as I arrived that I wasn’t allowed to apologise for disappearing on her for a bit at the start of the year – and to spend time with her and Peeta. He seems to get along with her just as well as he did with Madge, perhaps even more so, even though Johanna and Madge are completely different kinds of people.

Back at the house, Jo makes Peeta chop firewood, under her supervision. That he’s finally fulfilled his vision of what a lumberjack is (or at least how Gale made it look) makes me laugh.

“Stop leering at him,” I say, after Jo nudges me exaggeratedly when he bends down to pick up a piece of wood.

“Oh please,” she fires back. “Just because I like chicks doesn’t mean I can’t–”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I interrupt, and she gives me an innocent look.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t _appreciate_ good looking guys when they come about,” she says slowly. I roll my eyes. “Seriously, though,” she says, lowering her voice. “I was right about him being good in bed, right?”

Saying nothing is just as effective as saying something, so I just glare at her. She grins widely and snatches the cigarette back from my hand. I forgot what an enabler of bad habits she is.

“I knew it,” she hisses. “You looked way too happy all the time for it to just be a good personality.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It absolutely is my business,” she says. Across the way, Peeta lifts up a piece of wood and Jo gives him a thumbs up. She smirks at me. “Bless him. If he didn’t have a brain behind those baby blues he’d be an honest-to-god himbo.”

I look back at Peeta as he swings the axe down. Jo nudges me again. “You see it, don’t you?” she says.

“He is really nice,” I mumble. “And really good looking.”

“Narrowly escapes himbo classification by brains alone.”

“So what is he?” I ask, ignoring the voice in my head that tells me not to encourage her.

“I’ll let you figure that out for yourself,” she says. “You did say it was none of my business.”

Later that evening, Jo waits until Peeta ducks out to use the bathroom and then leans over to me.

“I could tell you liked him a whole fucking lot, but I didn’t know you were married already,” she says.

“Shut up,” I say. “We’re not like that at all.”

“You fucking are. You’re so into each other. It’s making me feel like a damn nun, hidden away in my mouldering cabin while you pre-honeymoon in Europe.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m only saying what I see, Everdeen. And what I see is a man who is head over heels for my best friend, and my best friend being head over heels for him too. I mean, Christ, I’ve _never_ seen you like this, and you’ve known each other for what, three months? Four?”

“Why do people keep saying this?” I ask. “I don’t understand it.”

“Well, it’s just been you and him for months now. There hasn’t been anyone else around to really see how you act around each other.”

“What about Gale and Madge?”

She flaps her hand. “Forget them! I’m serious. I’ve been sat here feeling like _I’m_ intruding. You look at him like you want to eat him alive.”

“Jo,” I say.

“Stop protesting,” she whispers. “I’m happy for you, brainless.” She picks up her glass of whisky. “Congratulations on the man, the brain, and the body,” she says with a cheer. I scowl automatically because it’s Johanna, but she just keeps holding her glass out and eventually I have to tap mine against hers. She smirks. “Knew you’d come around,” she says.

“You need to get laid, Jo,” I sigh. “You’re way too invested in my personal life.”

“I’m trying my best! But it’s kind of hard for everyone else when you and your boy toy have been occupying the entire sexual wavelength for the past few months.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, just as Peeta comes back in.

“What does what mean?” he asks, sitting down next to me, his hand resting on my ankle.

“Katniss here is telling me stories about you,” Jo says.

“That is a complete lie,” I counter, and Peeta glances from Jo to me and then back to Jo again.

“What did she say?” he asks.

“Peeta!” I protest, smacking his leg.

“Tell me, Johanna, please,” he carries on, and Jo cackles.

“It’s not very PG,” she begins, and Peeta’s ears go red. He looks back at me.

“What did you say?” he asks me.

“Nothing. Jesus Christ, she’s fucking with you. With me.” I point at Jo skulking in the armchair in the corner of the room like some scheming, deviant gremlin. “Look at her. Don’t listen to her. Listen to me.”

Peeta peers over at Jo. “What was that you said about getting indoctrinated into a cult?” he asks, and while Jo laughs at my expense, Peeta gives me a great big grin and I can’t do anything except tug him towards me and kiss him.

“Gross,” Jo say when we pull apart. Then, in the same breath, “You’re pretty cute, Mellark. You got a cute sister who’s single?”

“Just brothers, I’m afraid,” Peeta says ruefully.

“How about a cousin?”

“I have an aunt on my dad’s side. She raises sled-dogs.”

Jo raises an eyebrow. “I could handle that,” she says. “Tell me more.”

After Jo bids us goodnight, Peeta and I curl up on the sofa bed, listening to the trees creaking and the wind chimes singing.

“Jo likes you,” I mumble into his side. His arm tightens around me.

“I think she was more worried than she lets on. I’m glad to have met her. To have reassured her that I’m not trying to steal you away or anything.”

“You could totally be a cult leader though,” I say, and his laugh rumbles through him. “You have the looks, the charisma, the way with the words… you’d be dangerous.”

“I’d feel too guilty for leading people on,” Peeta murmurs. “That’s not my style.”

“What is your style?”

“I like to find pretty girls in the middle of Italy and convince them to share their beds with me. And to then drive me places. And take me to see their friends.”

“So this has worked before?” I ask, laughter threading through my words. “You’ve tried this with other girls?”

Peeta kisses the top of my head. “Nah. Tried it out on you first and it went so well I won’t need to try again.”

I’m suddenly wide awake at that, pushing myself upright so I can look at him. In the dark, his eyes glow. I’ll never get tired of those eyes.

“Really?” I ask him. I’m scared again. The prospect of forever. Now Peeta’s brought it up too.

“Really what?” he asks. I smooth my thumb over his brows.

“You think I’m it?” I whisper, feeling embarrassed. Peeta smooths his hands down my spine, a gentle, soothing motion.

“I know you’re it,” he says. “You’re it for me.”

“How can you be so sure?” I ask, my voice coming out small. I hate that I’m doubting myself, and that I’m therefore doubting him. The last thing I want is for him to feel like I’m rejecting him and his feelings. But I also don’t want a repeat of Padua. Of my own fears of rejection and abandonment stifling my ability to communicate clearly, with him and with myself. I have to be honest. And that includes the moments when I’m overwhelmed with how much I love him.

“Because when I think about never seeing you again, or about if I had let you leave in Rome, or if I had come here without you… it hurts inside. It makes me feel like there’s nothing to look forward to anymore.” Peeta tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to convey how I feel about you, Katniss. And that kills me. It really does.”

“I don’t think I’d believe you, even if you did,” I whisper. One of his hands shifts up to the back of my neck and he pulls me in to kiss me. I press myself more fully against him, my elbow sinking into the pillow above his shoulder, one leg crooking over his hips. We kiss until I’m breathless. Until Peeta’s lips are swollen.

“I’d like to keep trying,” he says. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

“I’ll allow it,” I reply. His answering smile is like the sun.

The next morning, we pack our bags to leave. We eat breakfast and talk about the weather, and Jo finds an old map in a forgotten drawer and gives it to Peeta, who gazes at it with heart-eyes. In return, he sketches Craig. Jo pins the drawing on the fridge, clearly touched. After breakfast, I go and put our bags in the car while he says goodbye to Johanna. I watch her gesturing wildly at him and then giving him a quick but firm hug. When I return, and Peeta goes down the steps and onto the soft, pine needle-covered earth, she hugs me too. I’m surprised to say the least, because Jo has never been a massively physical or sentimental person. That was why I was drawn to her, why we became friends. But I suppose the past year has changed things slightly for both of us. Just as I never would’ve guessed I’d have found someone like Peeta, I never would’ve thought Jo would want to hug me, let alone actually do it.

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” she says, giving me a meaningful look.

“I won’t be,” I reply, and it is a promise. I won’t leave my friends behind again. I won’t allow myself to forget that there are people back home who love me.

She shoves two small boxes wrapped hastily in festive paper into my hands.

“Don’t open them until Christmas day,” she orders, looking a little bloodshot.

“I didn’t get you anything,” I say, feeling horribly guilty.

“I don’t want anything. Just call me, alright?” she says. “That’s my request. Gimme a call.”

“Jo,” I say. She clears her throat.

“Don’t be such a fucking girl,” she says, like she isn’t getting a bit teary-eyed too. I laugh, and she blinks rapidly a few times until her eyes aren’t wet anymore. Then she looks past me and says _for fuck’s sake_ under her breath. I look around. Peeta has Craig in his arms.

“Can I keep him?” he asks.

“No you cannot!” Jo says. She sighs heavily. “He can even get cats to join his cult,” she mutters.

I head towards the car.

“I’d tell you to hurry up in case you missed your plane, but you two nut-jobs don’t plan anything in advance, apparently!” she calls over, walking barefoot down the porch steps and whistling to Craig, who bounds over to her and jumps into her arms and then balances on her shoulder as if she’s a pirate captain.

“You’re made for each other and it’s disgusting!” she shouts.

Peeta and I get into the car. I roll my window down. Peeta leans across the console and waves as he starts the engine. I wave at Jo too, and she presents me her middle finger. I laugh and return the gesture. As we pull away down the track, she lifts her hand higher, and keeps doing it until she’s swallowed up by the trees.

We drive in silence for a minute or two. Only when we’re on the main road, picking up speed, does Peeta speak.

“Panem really isn’t so bad,” he murmurs. I look behind me. Right on the horizon, I can see the ridge of mountains and hills that signify Panem state lines, and somewhere beyond, Merchantville and the Seam.

“You said it yourself,” I reply, looking down at Jo’s gifts, running my finger over the sloppily-applied tape and our names scrawled on each one with sharpie. “Home isn’t always a place.”

An hour later, we stand in another non-descript airport, staring at the departures board, watching the golden-yellow numbers and letters flicker back and forth like fireflies.

“Where to next?” Peeta asks, looking expectantly at me. I take his hand and shrug.

“I don’t mind,” I tell him. “You pick.”

**Author's Note:**

> @saturnblushes on tumblr


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